Crossings Page 3

  The door closed, but the cold fingers of winter’s last stand on Genoa dominated the room. Helena didn’t readily move. She grew pensive, and allowed herself to imagine what kind of husband Judge Bayard Kimball would be. He had asked her to marry him once before when her father was living, so she knew that his recent offer wasn’t purely charitable. A portrait of domesticity with such a man had been clear to her from the moment she met him. He would expect her to be subservient, a pillar of the ladies’ community, and serve him well in his political aspirations. That would mean no rides astride the horses, no summer nights spent sleeping on the haystacks, and no swims in the creek wearing her shimmy.

  Bayard would want her to be a proper wife. She would have to yield to him on their wedding night, and he would discover what she had sworn deeply never to reveal. The very idea of anyone finding out sent guilt and grief washing through Helena, and she refused to think about what could never be.

  Over the course of an hour, customers came and left, their purchases not adding up to the amount Helena needed to buy more hay and to pay for horse shoeing—should those merchants have a change of heart and render her service.

  Anxious for Emilie to return, Helena dusted the shelves of patent medicines. The store didn’t hold the same appeal for her as helping Eliazer with the stock. She wasn’t a woman who preferred the indoors. The lure of fresh air, the vigor of working with horses, and the rewards of physical exhaustion at the end of a hard day were far more alluring to her than minding the till.

  The door opened and slammed closed on a gust of wind. Swirling around, Helena tried to subdue the tempo of her racing heartbeat from being startled out of her thoughts.

  “Afternoon, Miss Gray.” Seaton Hanrahan entered the store with his swaggering presence. A tall and lean man, his stance emphasized the slimness of his hips. He wore his sandy hair cropped short above the ears, with a flashy black hat cocked over his forehead. The rattlesnake-skin band adorning the high crown distinguished him in a crowd during his periodic trips to town. Seaton was a wrangler who worked off and on for the many ranchers in the valley.

  As Seaton strode toward her, the jingle of steel spurs rang in showy chorus. He’d fastened little pear-shaped pendants to the axles of his spur rowels. The danglers had no purpose. Their sole function was to jingle-jangle.

  “Don’t this snow beat all?” he drawled. “It’s colder than a crowbar outside.”

  There was a shrewdness about his voice that never quite sounded sincere to Helena. At twenty-some years of age, he was unsociable, coupled with a sullen charm that went wasted on her. She stared at him, wondering, as she did now with all the roughened customers who crossed the threshold of the store, if he had been the one to pull the trigger against her father. Or had the criminal fled town, leaving her never to know who he was?

  “How can I help you, Mr. Hanrahan?”

  “I’m just looking around.” He wandered through the store, pawing and picking up this and that as if he owned everything lock, stock, and barrel. His tour of the merchandise took him back to the front door, where he glanced at the traffic on the street before heading in her direction. The slanted heels of his calfskin boots scraped over the uneven floor, leaving globs of thick mud. Stopping in front of her, he put both hands on the counter and leaned forward. Brown eyes with flecks in darker hues studied her without blinking once. She didn’t shrink away from him, despite wanting to in the worst way. “I’ll take a plug of Brown’s Mule.”

  Glad to get out from under Seaton’s unnerving gaze, Helena reached for the box of chewing tobacco and pulled out a bar. Red metal tags with teeth, in the shape of mules, were stuck into each portion. She measured out one plug and cut it off. “Would you like it wrapped?”

  “No.” He slowly slid a coin across the scratched top of the wooden counter with the tip of his forefinger.

  She held the length of chew out for him to take. His fingers reached for her offering, but rather than make contact with his purchase, he slipped his hand around her wrist. She pulled her arm back, but his grip was unrelenting.

  “You’ve got soft skin, Miss Gray.”

  Helena went still, trying to decide if he truly meant her harm or just wanted to scare her.

  “I hear you’re in need of a husband.” His rough-skinned thumb brushed her pulse point, and she was chagrined to know he could feel how rapidly her blood was racing. “Maybe we can work out something between us.”

  “I don’t think so.” She attempted freedom again. This time he let her withdraw her hand. “If the tobacco is all you need—”

  “No. I’m thinking I need something else.” He rounded the end of the counter, and Helena felt panic well inside her. Her gaze darted to the Sharps rifle suspended on pegs above the front door, then at the curtained partition leading to the house. No one was inside. Ignacia had come in earlier to tell her she would be in the yard plucking feathers from the supper chickens.

  Helena scooted through the narrow space between the shelves and countertop. “I’d like you to leave.”

  Seaton bore down on her with nimble feet, trapping her in the corner. Only a few precious yards separated her and the rifle, but she couldn’t reach the stock. Seaton pinned her against the glass case containing shoes, his thighs solid and steady next to the fullness of her skirt. “Now, if you’ve a mind to fetch yourself a husband, I’ve a mind to show you what I can offer a pretty thing like yourself.” His hands cradled her face, tilting her head as he lowered his lips over hers.

  Struggling to break free, Helena kicked at his shins and tried to wrench away from his mouth, but the pressure he plied was too domineering to break. His hands holding her cheeks may well have been a vise. Clawing at his nubby coat, she gasped for breath, her throat closing with terror.

  Then suddenly he was gone and the space he’d been in was a whirling void. Glass breaking sharpened her rioting senses, and Helena spun to see Carrigan holding Seaton by his fleece collar. Carrigan’s large hands rode up Seaton’s thin neck, tightening around his Adam’s apple. Seaton’s arms thrashed upward, clutching at Carrigan’s wrists, but Carrigan kept squeezing. The sun-reddened skin at Seaton’s throat began to turn white, and his garbled struggle for escape wheezed to near nothingness. His eyes started to roll inside his skull, and his arms dropped to his sides.

  “Stop it!” Helena screamed.

  The strong veins on the tops of Carrigan’s hands bulged as his fingers constricted Seaton’s waxen flesh. Every visible muscle in Carrigan’s body was strained as his hands jerked and attempted to snuff out a life like an animal going after its prey.

  “You’re killing him!” she railed in a hoarse voice. “Let go!”

  Whether it was Seaton’s lack of fight or her desperate pleas, Carrigan released Seaton with a shove. He fell limply over the fabric table, winded and sucking in loud gulps of air that were mingled with coughing spasms. Several bolts of cloth fell as Seaton struggled to regain control of his breath. The color began to return to his cheeks in blotches of red from his panting.

  Carrigan stood over him, his face etched in a rage. Without warning, he grabbed Seaton by his collar once again and hauled him to his wobbly feet. Barely able to stand, Seaton snatched his hat. He ground his fingers into the black brim, his eyes watering from the bruising his lungs had taken while fighting for oxygen.

  Putting his nose close to Seaton’s, Carrigan spoke in a quiet but menacing tone. “If you ever touch her again, I’ll slice you with those fancy spurs and the next hard-on you get, you’ll be screaming in a soprano voice.”

  Then he dragged Seaton toward the door and pushed him out the opening. A draft that raised the gooseflesh on Helena’s arms was left in Seaton’s wake, and the room became as still as the shards of glass on the floor. Carrigan dominated the area as if he were a part of it, dwarfing everything around him. His shoulders and arms, encased in a tanned leather long coat with buffalo-hide trim and fringe on the sleeves, were built like the broad beams of the store’s ceiling. The bead
ed front gapped, and she could see his Walker Colt snugly tied around his right thigh with a thong of rawhide.

  Fear absorbed Helena more than gratitude. It was that fear sending a kind of bell to ring in her mind. Carrigan was capable of murder. He had threatened to kill her when she’d trespassed on his mountain, and now she’d witnessed his near strangulation of a man.

  Helena must have worn her shock and astonishment on her face, because Carrigan responded in a ragged voice empty of apology. “What did you expect? I’m not a saint. He was trying to rape you.” Melted snow dripped off the ends of his ebony hair as his fingers dove through the strands to clear them from his vision. “I should have killed him.”

  “I don’t think he was trying to rape me.”

  “Maybe I should have let you find out.”

  An explosive silence ran between them like a lit fuse. Seaton Hanrahan deserved to be put in his place for kissing her. He didn’t deserve to be put in his grave. He’d had one foot in it and might have gone under body and soul if she hadn’t told Carrigan to stop. He was hard-bitten by brutality. Emilie was right about his character.

  Without a word, Helena sunk to the floor and began picking up glass fragments from the broken jar of peppermint balls. She felt Carrigan’s gaze on her . . . scrutinizing, weighing, deciding . . . what? She couldn’t define the meaning behind his stare. Facing him so soon after he’d scoffed at her proposal required much effort.

  Carrigan dropped to one knee. The wet leather of his coat exuded a musky scent that rioted her senses. He nudged her hand away to gather the pieces of glass. The brief contact ripped a hole in her cool facade of indifference. She could feel the heat from his body, and the definite arrogance of his sexuality that both entranced and frightened her. Lifting her chin, she met eyes the color of fresh mint and speckled with gold. He looked down at her for a long moment, then said in a voice as rough as the raised calluses on the pads of his fingers, “Get a bin.”

  She drew herself up straight, glad to get out from under his spell. The aura of mystery surrounding him did funny things to her insides. She didn’t appreciate the way she felt compelled to check for flyaway wisps that might have escaped from her hairnet. Or to wonder if the fatigue smudges under her eyes were still as noticeable as they had been this morning. It wasn’t like her to be distracted by the state of her appearance.

  Depositing her debris in the wooden bin, she returned with it to where Carrigan was crouched. His sinewy thigh strained the duck cloth of his trousers as he pivoted on the ball of his foot to dump the fragments he’d collected. As she noticed the sheathed knife he carried in the top of his boot, her tingling reaction toward him was overwhelming. She quickly turned her attention to the white splinters of candy and the balance of clear slivers that would require a broom to fully remove. She’d do it herself. Later. When Carrigan wasn’t upsetting her with his overpowering proximity.

  “I’ll clean up the rest,” she said, and took her place behind the counter, where she felt somewhat safer from the potent magnetism that radiated from him.

  Carrigan stood. The thickness of his hair grazed the overhead joists. She realized he didn’t wear a hat, nor had he worn one the evening she went to see him. To her recollection, he didn’t possess a hat. She fleetingly wondered why, then shook off the thought as trivial and having no bearing on her.

  She took a businesslike breath that lifted her breasts and silhouetted them against the black cotton of her shirtwaist. The unintentional gesture drew his eyes. She fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. Before a blush could claim her cheeks, she asked, “Tell me what you need, and I’ll write it up.”

  Unhurried, he crossed his arms over his chest, giving way to an attitude of self-command and studied relaxation. “Have you found a husband yet?”

  His question thwarted her attempt to remain unaffected by his presence. She couldn’t prevent heat from stealing into her face. “Since you’ve made it clear you aren’t interested, I don’t think you’re entitled to an answer.”

  Disregarding her censure, he said with heavy impatience, “Don’t play games with me. Just tell me yes or no.”

  “No, I haven’t found a husband.” Her composure was under attack, and she felt as if she were quickly losing control of the situation.

  “That’s all I wanted to know.” Carrigan hooked his thumb over the embossed leather of his gun belt, a move that draped the edge of his coat behind his Colt and highlighted his pelvic area. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but her eyes lowered.

  Then he made a slow, deliberate inspection of the store—something she found slightly annoying. He knew what they had, and where it was located. His purchases consisted of food staples and indulgences such as a newspaper, whiskey, cigarette papers and tobacco, and sometimes a book.

  At the fabric table, he bent and picked up the spilled bolts of cloth. Piling them on one another, he lingered over the last roll. The calico had a royal background with a pattern of tiny roses and fern leaves. When it had come in, she’d thought the dye striking, but too vivid for her to wear so soon after her father’s death.

  Carrigan alternately gazed at her and the predominantly blue material, presumably measuring the hue against the color of her eyes. The intimate comparison caused warm sensations to spiral through her middle. She wasn’t accustomed to gestures of such a personal nature from men.

  “Did you need help finding something?” she asked, trying to distract him from the fabric.

  “Hmm.” He made a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything, but proceeded through the path of merchandise. The footfalls of his boots marked the compact weight of his well-proportioned body. At the notions, he ran his fingers across the lace trims and ribbons. That he continued to make a point of examining the ladies’ goods had Helena gnawing the inside of her cheek.

  At last he walked full circle and stood before her empty-handed. His gaze lifted to a spot behind her, and she turned to see what item he wanted. There was no shelf in that particular section—just a yellowed map her father had drawn of Genoa and nailed to the wall. He’d gotten tired of giving directions to new-comers and found by laying out the town on paper, he could save himself explanation. The map showed the nine streets and the town’s boundaries, as well as a large parcel of one hundred and sixty acres on the eastern side he’d bought for her and Emilie under the preemption act. Carrigan focused long and hard on the map, the intensity of his eyes making her wonder what he was thinking.

  Helena swallowed tightly as his gaze fell to hers. Without inflection he said, “I’ll take a newspaper, and I’ll take you for my wife.”

  * * *

  The words were out before he could take them back. Carrigan’s decision had been made as soon as he’d seen that renegade with an itch in his belly forcing himself on Helena. The scene had summoned a dark spirit whose unheard cries tore into his heart. It hadn’t been Helena he’d seen being violated, but an apparition of Jenny. Jesus, how her body and sanity must have suffered. Her death had been a release from her pain, but it had broken him. Though years had dulled the fire of retaliation, today he found out his hatred still burned bright.

  He’d wanted to commit murder. To tread over a tombstone and know that the deed had been done. That vengeance was his, and the crime solved. But three years had gone by and the past was trackless, lost somewhere on the frontier. He’d had to ride away from the ghosts, but seeing Helena as a victim made him remember.

  His intention had been to walk out of the store with his newspaper and the solitude in which to read it. But he hadn’t been able to leave Helena. Ever since she’d come to see him, she’d been in his thoughts. He’d found no peace from her, not even in a sleep induced by long hours of hard labor and the influence of ample whiskey.

  When her voice had just been a human sound, he’d been deaf.

  When her body had just been a shadow, he’d been blind.

  When her scent had just been a suggestion, he’d been unaware.

  But tha
t night by his campfire, she’d gotten close enough for him to drink in her essence. Suddenly she became a flesh-and-blood woman with a striking face, passionate voice, and flowery fragrance. He couldn’t stare through her anymore. His brain puzzled to cipher some scheme for getting out of staying in Genoa. He was torn between the isolation of his world and the populace of hers, conflict raging in his head as reasons attacked one another. The end result had been decided from a mental flash, except not without gain on his part. He’d trade with her, but the price was going to be a lot more than his name was worth.

  “I find no humor in your remark,” Helena replied tartly, biting through his thoughts.

  “You weren’t supposed to.” Carrigan felt for the rolled cigarette he’d stashed in the slitted front pocket of his coat. His lips clamped around the twisted end. “I’m serious.” He struck a match on the counter and touched the flame to his cigarette.

  Her voice rose in surprise. “You can’t be.”

  Waving out the match, he said, “I am.” As he drew on the cigarette, smoke curled in his lungs and calmed his churning gut. He stared at her bewildered expression through the haze he exhaled.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “You have something I want.”

  Suddenly her face went grim. “What?”

  He inclined his head toward the paper on the wall. “Land. The parcel your father told me about. I’d forgotten until I saw that map.” His recollection of the day August had colorfully described the lot resurfaced. Out of curiosity he’d ridden across the length of it that afternoon. A belt of the forest covered most of the acreage, with a tributary of water and not too many granite sheets. “I’ll marry you in exchange for your land.”

  “You already have land.”

  “Not legally.” Technically he was a squatter. He’d chosen a secluded spot to make his home a year before settlers began encroaching on his mountain and cutting off his breathing room. By first-come rights, he should have owned the town. But the law didn’t see things that way. Sooner or later, he’d be squeezed out by the jaws of bureaucracy, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “I built my cabin before the town was established. If the boundaries expand to include my land, I won’t have jack. I need property with a title. Something no one can take away from me.”