Crossings Page 15

  When Carrigan returned, he noted Helena had lined up all the equipment in military rows. Her bedroll—with the Sharps at her saddle pillow—was made as neat as a bakery pie. The waterproof tarp enclosed by a couple of sugans was strategically placed next to where he assumed she wanted the campfire to be. She’d arranged a ring of bleached riverbed rocks.

  Carrigan strode into the camp and deposited the rough-barked and twisted boughs of sagebrush into the pit.

  “I’ll fix supper,” Helena offered.

  “I can do it.” Carrigan preferred to cook the meal himself. He wasn’t accustomed to being waited on. Taking his meals with the rest of them at the station without lifting a hand didn’t feel right to him. He’d done for himself too long to give up his independence when it came to a skillet. He could hold his own and prepare a passable dish. Years of experimenting, with spices adding flavor to his meat and vegetables, had turned him into a veteran cook. He even bet he knew a few tricks Helena didn’t.

  Helena put her hands on her hips, the level of her shoulders not so straight as they’d been in the saddle. She was running out of energy. “What should I do?”

  “Get me some water.” He handed her the coffeepot. “Don’t get it from the lake. Use the spring. And maybe you better take that Sharps with you. Wild animals could chew you up.” When she made no comment, he added, “That is why you brought the rifle?”

  “I brought it for protection.” Her expression veiled any thought she was holding. “If something were to happen to you, I’d need to defend myself.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me unless you point that gun in my vicinity. Then I can see a problem. Is there one?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Without a word, she went off, and he figured they’d cleared up the matter of the Sharps good enough. She knew he wasn’t blind to it, so he better not hear the weapon going off for no good reason.

  In Helena’s absence, Carrigan arranged the wood and struck a matchstick. The end burned azure, then budded into a lusty flame to light the fire. As the wood caught and brightened to a yellow-orange, he grew mesmerized by the fire’s beckoning snap. Ghosts of the past rose with the waves of heat. Of its own accord, his mind drifted. He would never understand how Jenny could have wanted death this way . . . by burning. By suffocation and . . .

  The crackling pop of dry tinder belching forth had Carrigan cringing. To him, fire was dangerous and cruel, but he wasn’t in a position to slight it. His life depended on its heat source. But little sparks grew demons that had the power to assume the figure of a woman. Jenny. For each time the fire’s entrancement caught him, he could see her. The visions used to literally cause him to retch with sorrow, but that had passed over the years. Now the fire just preyed on his heart, squeezing his ribs with a fiendish, convulsing smile of glowing red.

  “I said, here’s your water.”

  Carrigan slowly lifted his gaze. He had no idea how long Helena had stood there, her hand extended with the coffeepot. Muttering his thanks, he took the handle from her.

  Over the next half hour, he formulated a simple but palatable plate of skillet cakes with portions of the hickory-flavored bacon. With Helena contributing some of the cheese Ignacia had sent, and piping hot coffee, the mixture filled and satisfied his empty stomach.

  Helena ate without saying a word, her gaze periodically taking in the scenery. From their spot, they had an open view of the lake. As the stars came out, the diamondlike points were reflected off the water.

  After supper, Carrigan cleaned up and covered a skillet of pinto beans with water to soak overnight for tomorrow’s supper. That completed, he leaned into a boulder still warm from the departed sun and smoked meditatively in the sedate hush. With the mollifying whispers of trees calling to one another, he could forget about his agreement with Helena and the months he had left on their marriage contract. But he couldn’t forget about the haystack. His thoughts always went back to that night.

  After Helena had retreated for the stables practically on Eliazer’s heels, Carrigan had left as well. Needing a chilling bracer to douse his hot state of arousal, he’d combed his hair away from his face with icy water from the basin at the back door. He’d been consumed by Helena, wanting her, but all the while he’d told himself he could be an impartial participant. The act of sex was nothing more than the gratification of his body. He could be detached and think solely of the pleasure copulation brought a man.

  Carrigan flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fire with a frown. There was no sadder contradiction for his sorry line of thought. With Helena, nothing came without complexities.

  “How are you going to build a corral?”

  Helena’s question registered in his musings, and he looked at her. She sat on top of her bedroll, one of the wool-batted quilts over her bent knees. The fire’s gleam highlighted her coiled hair, making it shine like new coins out of a rich man’s pocket.

  “Don’t think I’ll build one just yet.”

  “But you said—”

  “I changed my mind.” The clink of his spurs intruded on his words as he straightened his leg. He one-handed the fasteners, undoing each strap and setting them aside. “I’m going after Columbiana first. The others may surrender more easily once they see I’ve got their leader.”

  “If that doesn’t work?”

  “I’ll make the enclosure.”

  Sipping coffee to a noisy serenade of coyotes, neither commented further on the subject of horses. Carrigan had his own thoughts competing for his preoccupation, and from the roundabout interrogation he’d gotten from Helena, so did she. That blanket of distrust she had for him could very well have kept her warm until morning.

  After a spell, he banked the fire for the night. When he glanced at Helena, he saw she’d drifted off while half sitting and with the cup in her hand. He went to her and took the unfinished coffee, flinging the cooled contents into the grass. Then he gathered the edge of her sugan and brought it to her chin. Before he could walk away, he paused and stared at her.

  The sweep of her eyelashes shadowed her cheeks. Exhausted, the adventurous woman had found well-earned sleep. Seeing her so peaceful, and without her courageous expressions, he wondered when she ever did anything for herself. People needed moments to appreciate their good qualities and do something they enjoyed. He knew Helena loved horses, but that wasn’t a womanly thing to take pleasure in. Country dances, new dresses and ribbons, and tea socials were the choice frivolities of females. Why had she deprived herself of such diversions? Of letting her sister grow up?

  It would seem the intricacies of Helena’s past rivaled his own. Had she ever been in love? Who was the man who’d given her the kissing lesson? Not knowing the answers was the best way to keep his distance from her. But of late, he found himself trying to figure her out. Trying to understand why she’d hidden herself away behind the counter of a store, and the door of a stable. Of course, he could never fault or condemn her for it. He’d done the very same thing on his mountain.

  Unable to leave her as she was, Carrigan pitched the empty cup toward his cooking gear and bent down to arrange her proper. His hands lifted her limp shoulders and slid her down into the warmth of her bedroll. Saddles made poor pillow cushions, so he shrugged out of his mackinaw, wadded the fabric, and placed it beneath her head. The silkiness of her hair teased his fingers, but he left the pinned curls alone. The next time he took down the thick tresses, he wanted her wearing absolutely nothing else.

  Tucking in the quilt that encompassed her, he stood back and continued to watch her sleep for several minutes more. She hadn’t made a sound when he moved her, and he didn’t think anything could intrude on her deep slumber. If only he could deaden his mind in such a way.

  Carrigan left Helena and settled into his own pallet. Obsi soon made himself at home in the covers.

  In due time, Carrigan felt himself getting tired enough to sleep. The shore’s lapping surf had a lulling so
und he found soothing. But it was difficult to get into that dreamless state when he was frequently disturbed by Obsi, who stretched and braced his feet against the length of Carrigan’s back. The dog shoved, grunted, and being relatively warm and cozy beneath the blanket, he pawed Carrigan to express his contented comfort.

  Just as Carrigan was finally dozing, Obsi began dreaming of the chase—no doubt a heated pursuit of the magpie. He tugged and bit at Carrigan’s hair while barking softly in his ear. When an elbow nudging his belly didn’t cease the dog’s twitches, Carrigan snapped his eyes open with disgust.

  For a long time after, he charted the tortoiselike movement of the three-quarter moon as it inched toward a morning sky. He had many regrets in his life. But foremost at this moment was having a dog with spiny stickers in his fur lying next to him instead of Helena.

  * * *

  The next morning, Helena and Carrigan ate breakfast in a mutual quiet, then left camp just after daylight streaked the sky in a swath of russet. Refreshed after a night of near-uninterrupted sleep, Helena felt up for the long and hard ride ahead.

  Carrigan covered ground quickly, heading toward the same mesa as yesterday. Her gaze kept falling on his broad back, and the crown of his gray hat where his hair flowed underneath the brim. Sometime in the middle of the night, he’d put her blankets on and seen to it she was snugly inside her bedroll. She barely remembered falling asleep.

  To think he could be so generous toward her, yet sabotage her station, was perplexing and very upsetting. Wayward suspicions continued to occupy her mind. But they were less and less aimed at Carrigan. More were directed toward Bayard. Not that she thought him responsible for her trouble in any way. Bayard wasn’t a disreputable character. He wouldn’t commit robbery. Especially not against her.

  But some nearly intangible feeling that resembled a deep-seated loyalty to Carrigan wasn’t wholly convinced by Bayard’s story. His account of Carrigan’s guilt hadn’t won her over as it immediately should have. Uncertainty niggled at her. Before she passed a final verdict, she would watch Carrigan closely. Size him up and put him through the challenge of regaining her lost horses—but not challenge him with her Sharps. That had been a bad idea . . . and an unnecessary one because he’d seen through her plan like glass.

  It was almost high noon when they cleared the foothills and Carrigan began to track the prints that were reasonably clear. Over the edge of the mesa the grassland was vacant, and Helena’s heart dropped in horrified panic.

  Her voice faltered when she asked, “Where are they?”

  Carrigan adjusted the brim of his hat, keeping his eyes in gray shadow. His mouth was discernible, as was the slightly crooked line of his nose. A brown tan deepened the color of his skin. “Probably over that next ridge. This might have been their late grazing spot.”

  At least as they progressed through the valley, Helena was able to identify the tiny prints of Esmeralda’s colt. Just beyond the edge of grass, a line of trees marched in almost a succinct break, as if they’d been intentionally planted that way. Shading themselves beneath the resplendent poplars, the herd sighted them. Rather than bust out of the mottled leaf canopy, they slowly started on with ambiguous reservation. Columbiana led them, the dun mare raising her tail and throwing her ears back. She obviously intended to take them to a more peaceful territory.

  “Turn around,” Carrigan cautioned while reining back. With an easy command, he wheeled Boomerang in the opposite direction of the herd.

  “Why are we leaving?”

  “To have dinner.”

  “Dinner?” she parroted incredulously. “The horses are right here. We can get Columbiana.”

  “I want her to think we can’t.”

  Carrigan trotted away, Obsi running alongside the strawberry roan. Helena had no choice but to follow. She was fuming, not at all understanding Carrigan’s rationale. The horses were here. They were for the taking, and he was going to ignore them. Did he intend to get them at all? She wondered about his involvement anew.

  Ahead, a south-sided bluff was washed in sunlight. Carrigan rode to the top of it and dismounted. Tethering his horse, he stood at the edge of the precipice and smiled. She couldn’t figure out why. There was nothing funny. It was only after she’d wound Traveler’s reins around a scrub and walked to Carrigan that she could see what he was so smug about.

  They had a perfect view of the herd. Columbiana kept her head high, nose lifted to scent them. But she couldn’t. The wind was on their side. After a while, she lay down on the grass and began to roll as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Helena wanted to yell at her their friendship was over. When she thought of all the sugar lumps, carrots, and apples she’d treated that horse to . . .

  “Who does she think she is?” Helena said under her breath.

  Carrigan let out a low-pitched laugh, as if he were in on a joke she wasn’t. “She’s a female. And I’m going to best her.”

  Helena thought this over while they fed their horses a small amount of oats and took in a meal themselves. But Helena was too excited to eat much, even though Carrigan said she’d be sorry for it later when her stomach was growling. In the early part of the afternoon, they remounted, and Carrigan moved into motion.

  “I want you to stay back,” he cautioned while slipping on a pair of rawhide gloves. “If they stampede, they’ll run you down and kill you.”

  She said nothing.

  “You hear me, Helena?” he repeated in a stern tone that bristled. “I said to stay out of the way.”

  “I will,” she snipped.

  “You do as I say.” Then he gave the dog a talking to. “Obsi. Sit.”

  The dog slowly lowered into position, his tongue lagging to one side of his mouth in a brisk pant. For most of the day, he’d been hunting lizards and birds.

  Carrigan sat taller and unhooked a sturdy lariat he’d draped over his saddle horn. With great dexterity, he fashioned a big loop. Helena watched him with interest, noting the efficient manner in which he readied himself. He knew exactly what he was doing, his movements precise.

  As a current of air ruffled his sleeves, she couldn’t help being favorably influenced by his showy expertise. He cut a dashing picture in his buffalo-hide chaps of a shotgun style with fringe down the sides, striped vest that hung open in the breeze, and a blue cotton shirt. Drawing the bead upward on the thongs of his hat, he anchored the moderate crown firmly on his head.

  “I’ll bring her back with me,” he promised while putting a double half hitch in his rope, securing the end to his saddle horn.

  Rather than approach the herd quietly, Carrigan bore down on them full speed. His strong arm raised, he shook out the rawhide rope. He made a whooping noise and whistled. This put the herd in disarray. They churned the earth with their hooves and took off running at a stiff-legged pace. Riding close as they charged, he kept right on top of Columbiana, calling on Boomerang for all he had.

  Faster than Helena could see, Carrigan had the rope around the mare’s neck right behind her ears where she would choke quickly and wouldn’t pull as much as if he’d caught her low on the throat.

  Obsi began to bark excitedly, but didn’t defy his master’s order.

  Columbiana began pulling and kicking in a little circle, trying to get loose from the rope. But the more she pulled, the more she choked. Helena put her hand to her throat, feeling sympathy for the struggling mare.

  Carrigan jumped off his horse, dug his spurs into the ground, and held the rope tight while the horse fought him. With his free hand, he reached for the hackamore he’d slip-tied to his saddle.

  Pretty soon Columbiana lost all the air she had and fell. He yelled at Boomerang to give him slack, then rushed up to the mare’s head and loosened the rope so she could get air. Before she attempted to regain her feet, he slipped the hackamore on her and fastened the throat latch. Then swiftly he took the lead rope on the hackamore and hurried back to Boomerang, where he untied the lariat from the horn.

  Columbia
na caught her breath and came up pawing, those soft ears of hers thrown all the way back to California. Carrigan swung into his saddle as she tried to run. He let Boomerang go a distance with her for a few lengths, then he turned her around in the direction where Helena waited.

  Obsi wiggled, his tail swishing back and forth. He gave a few frantic barks, then rose to all fours as Carrigan progressed with a triumphant grin on his face.

  “One down. Eleven and a half left to go,” he said, cocksure of himself as he passed her by with a mock salute that had more brass to it than a roomful of high-ranking military officers.

  Chapter

  10

  Jumping into the lake’s freezing water, Carrigan let out a chilled howl. Wearing only duck pants, he disappeared under the blue depths. Ripples ringed the disrupted surface left in his wake. Helena sat on a nearby rock and observed him, thinking he was an idiot to subject himself to such an icy bath. But he’d said he couldn’t stand the grit and sweat on his skin, and no inconvenient temperature was going to stop him from getting wet. She would have liked to jump in, too, but wasn’t about to strip to her underclothes. As soon as he came out, she planned on freshening up at the water’s edge.

  Carrigan’s head broke the surface. He shook the water from the ends of his long hair with a yell. “It is cold in here!” He walked toward her, the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest revealed to her with each step he took. “Throw me the soap.”

  Helena got off the boulder and found the small bar next to the heap of his discarded clothing. She tossed the cake to him, and he caught it in his left fist.