Crossings Page 7

  “That doesn’t mean I have to be satisfied with them.”

  “If you’re implying you’ll be after me to change my mind,” she said as she laid the bandages, salve, and a pair of scissors next to him, “I can assure you, I won’t.”

  “We’ll just have to see.”

  An arched eyebrow indicated her ill humor, but she said nothing to the contrary. She sat next to him, the edge of the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. Taking the scissors in her fingers, she shifted her energies to his wound. “Rather than unwrap the binding, I’m going to cut the fabric away layer by layer. It will be far less painful for you that way.”

  Without asking him his opinion, she leaned forward and snipped the knot free, then lightly pulled one of the strips until she was able to get a scissor blade beneath it. As she began to cut, there was no place for him to put his gaze except on her. Her movements made him notice a tiny gold cross undulating from a thin gold chain around her neck. If she’d worn the crucifix before, he couldn’t recall. He wondered if she was a devout listener and follower of Psalms and exhortations.

  “Do you drop down on your knees on Sundays?” he asked in a voice fringed with a rasp as her fingertips touched him.

  “No,” she replied without pause from severing a soiled band.

  Complete surprise hit him. “You’re wearing a cross.”

  “I didn’t say I was a disbeliever in God. My sister attends the church. I don’t. Our systems of faith may be different, but we both pray.”

  Her ministrations were slow and drawn out like foreplay. He felt the blood pumping through his veins and heard his heart beating in his ears. “Did you pray for me when I was shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think that’s why I didn’t die?”

  Keeping her chin down, she stole a glance at him. Her blue eyes shimmered with the light streaming from the window. “Do you believe it’s a possibility?”

  “I was raised on Proverbs, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He made no attempt to hide the fact he was watching her. “I guess I’m like you. I don’t need to stand on any prayer carpet to say what I’ve got to say to the man upstairs.”

  “Then we have two things in common. Our views on religion and the deaths of our fathers.”

  She left the observance open-ended, as if she were waiting for him to elaborate on how his father had died. The day it happened seemed far off, and as recent as yesterday. Hundreds of years could pass, and he would still think of the times that could have come.

  Closing his eyes, he transported himself into the spirit of the past so he could see the man he used to be: infinite in his desires, in union with the soul of another, and laughing at the riddles of humanity. But Jenny’s death didn’t leave him the same. The world spun a groove of change into his life. Each revolution seemed to decay his old character until he became unrecognizable even to himself. No change in his surroundings could repair the defect, for living alone hadn’t blotted out his past. Solitude had only given him more time to let the horrific scene embed itself into him deeper than roots.

  Ensconced on his windy mountain, he soon realized that no possession, no sunset or sunrise, no hill or valley, no constellation, no river or body of water, and no choir of birds was gratifying without a companion. But he accepted this as his forfeit and was reconciled to living alone until his hair grew as silver as a birch, and he became as petrified as a stone.

  Then Helena came to him, her offer of matrimony ruining his plans. He became starved for human contact. Not only in a physical manner, but the exchange of thought and the contagious need to trade gestures and voices. Though he clung to the security of his freedom, each subsequent day in her company, he’d soak up every drop of her to hold him through the years to come.

  “Are you in any pain?” Helena’s subtle voice broke into his guarded thoughts.

  “No,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. Breathing in until his lungs were filled, he let the scent of a woman flow into him like a river through the woods. Helena’s fragrance was exceptionally delicate and fine, akin to the bouquet of roses. She seemed unaware of the poignant affect she had on him.

  He slipped his eyes open, needing to utilize his other senses or else he would throw his arm around her neck and bring her down to his mouth.

  Lines of concentration deepened along her brows. “I’m almost finished.”

  She was nearing the end where the cloth wasn’t as thick. The natural heat from her hands diffused across his chest, and the snip of the scissors sliced at the tension in his ribs. Like a summer storm, the touch of her hands on him was all too brief. She stood and visually examined his injury. He followed her gaze to the ugly pucker of flesh around a hole the size of his smallest fingernail. Having never been gunshot before, he muttered his disgust under his breath. The scar would be nasty, but he figured the ones on his body were nothing compared to the hidden ones of his heart.

  “It actually looks better today.”

  “Then I’m glad I didn’t see it yesterday.”

  “You’ll have to sit up a little now so I can get the bandages out from behind your back.” Her hand supported his shoulder to help guide him.

  Seeing as he’d been lying in bed so long, he called to mind the strength that should have been revitalized by now. Only it didn’t answer. He found this out as he inched his way off the pillows and immediately flopped backward. In a fit of swearing, he condemned the beads of sweat that had popped out on his brow.

  Helena’s mouth thinned with displeasure. “Blasphemous use of the Lord’s name isn’t going to do you any good.”

  “Saying it makes me feel better,” he grumbled, refusing to acknowledge his weakened condition. Willing his muscles to work right, he tried again. Once more, failure seemed intent on breaking him. But he gritted his teeth long enough for her to remove the dirty bandages and tell him he could lie back down.

  Girding himself against the stroke of her fingers across his skin as she gently applied salve to his wound, he kept his focus straight ahead on the high collar of her bodice. The vertical row of jet buttons that safeguarded exposure of her pale throat marched downward between the pinnacles of her breasts. He’d forgotten just how tiny a woman’s fasteners were. A man had to have a fair amount of patience and dexterity to master them with one hand.

  “You’ll have to lie on your left side now,” Helena said.

  Carrigan complied, suffering the irritation of his pain and aspiring for an intermission from it—no matter how short.

  “You can rest for a moment, but then you’re going to have to sit up so I can get fresh bandages around you.”

  He wouldn’t anticipate the torment while she arranged the strips of cloth. Though the notion of sitting up for such a length left him cold. His weakness indicated dependence. And dependence went against the grain of his mind.

  Helena studied him with hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get Eliazer? He could—”

  “I’m sure.” Using the muscles stretched along his belly, he rose to half sitting and slightly lifted his arms. Through a grunt, he said, “Do it fast.”

  Nodding, she nimbly set out to work.

  “It’s not snowing outside today,” Helena commented as if to sidetrack him. “Maybe spring will come after all. The sun is shining and melting the snow.”

  “I want to go outside.”

  “You can’t.”

  “That doesn’t make me stop wanting to.”

  “You’ll adapt to the bed. You’ll see.” The faint smile on her lips was shot with bygone thoughts. “When I first arrived in Genoa, my petticoats were like my mother’s. A mass of lace—frills upon frills. I found out pressing ruffles was too much ironing with so much else to do. So now I make my petticoats with just a single deep ruffle to hold the starch.”

  Carrigan tilted his brow in amused wonder and momentarily captured her eyes with his.

  She laughed, the sound singularly affecting. Its depth was throaty, and as swee
t as music. “I hope I don’t shock you talking about my petticoats.”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I’m just trying to tell you how one makes adjustments when they have to. On our journey through the states and then the territories, I also learned how to make rice pudding without eggs. That may not be thought-provoking for you, but it was a learned accomplishment.” Her sleeve brushed his sore ribs as she made another pass around his rigid torso. “Rice pudding without using my eastern recipe calling for eggs, plus a vague understanding that petticoats ought to be plain, was all I knew about conquering the West.”

  “I don’t need a simple petticoat to conquer going outside.”

  “I should hope not,” she replied, biting on her lower lip as she gave him her full attention. He craved the mellow taste of tobacco to blot out thoughts of his mouth tasting hers. “But you need strength, and right now yours is on the mend. So don’t have any rose-colored expectations about getting out of bed before you’re able.”

  As she tied off the bandage in a neat little knot, the blankets slipped below his navel. Since he was bracing himself up with his arms, he couldn’t let go of the mattress to readjust them. He monitored her expression.

  She didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “If you’re waiting for me to swoon,” she ventured, “I’ll have to disappoint you. I have no patience with mock modesty.” Rising to her feet, she plumped his pillow, then anchored the bedclothes to his chest. “You may make yourself comfortable again. I’m finished.”

  Easing back into the feather softness, he asked, “Were you the one who undressed me?”

  “Eliazer and I.”

  “Nothing you saw shocked you?”

  She paused, her eyes fixed to his. “Your wound distressed me terribly, your scars made me wonder how you got them, but viewing you in your altogether didn’t traumatize me into a fit of vapors.” On that note, her brusque tone closed the subject.

  Lying motionless, he asked, “Where’s my gun and knife?”

  She gave him no reply as she put up the salve and leftover bandages.

  “Where did you put my Colt?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “I want my gun in the bed with me.”

  “There’s no reason.”

  “My saying I want it is.”

  Gazing at him, she apparently thought on the subject for a while, then concluded he wouldn’t give in. Pivoting, she opened the bureau’s bottom drawer and extracted his Walker by the walnut butt.

  He took the weapon and checked the cylinder. The bullets were missing. “It’s no good without ammunition.”

  Not saying a word, she dumped the six cartridges into his outstretched palm, and he fit them into their respective chambers. “I won’t go shooting up the place unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said wryly, flicking the cylinder closed with a snap of his wrist. Then he hid the Colt beneath the covers.

  “I assure you, it won’t be necessary.” Trying to discreetly stifle a yawn, she inquired, “Are you up to eating something? I could make you some corn-flour porridge and more pine nut tea.”

  “Did you sleep in the chair all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I did. Now, would you like the porridge?”

  “Hunger isn’t plaguing me. A headache from the laudanum is. Don’t slip me any more.”

  A wisp of hair teased her ear, and she smoothed it back. “But you need something to help you sleep.”

  “Get me some whiskey.”

  “If you think that’s a better alternative.”

  “It’s what I’m used to.”

  Shrugging, she started toward the door.

  He called after her. “Where’s my dog?”

  She turned around. “In the barn with your horses. Eliazer said they weren’t eager to follow his lead. What are their names?”

  “Boomerang and Traveler.”

  “I’ll tell him. He likes to call the animals by their names.” Ready to leave, she asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “You could bring me some papers and tobacco when you get around to it.”

  Her hand was on the tarnished knob when he spoke her name. “Helena?” The gentle syllables were pleasing to his tongue, and the temptation to repeat them was there.

  She gazed at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  She waited a moment, then said, “You’re welcome,” before letting herself out.

  Chapter

  5

  Carrigan was a difficult patient to tend. Being bedridden for the past six days put him in a chronic state of crankiness. The only thing that mollified his sore disposition was an unlimited supply of cigarettes and whiskey. When Helena visited him, she had to squint through the haze and throw the window sash up to purge the gray cloud from the room. She had no aversion to the smell of tobacco. Her father had smoked a cutty pipe. But when she walked down the hall and got a whiff of the masculine habit seeping underneath the door crevice, it disoriented her. She’d have to remind herself that her father wasn’t in his room, another man was.

  Her husband.

  She hadn’t slept in the chair by Carrigan’s bedside since the first night. When she brought him weak tea later that evening, and began to move the uncomfortable seat to settle into, he told her to leave it be. He refused to sleep with someone watching him. The need for a decent night’s rest stole her arguments, and she didn’t disregard his wishes.

  From that moment onward, his attitude soured. He expressed his dissatisfaction about not being able to go outside each time she brought him a meal tray and changed his bandage. If she’d had a free hour to spare from the stables and store, she would have insisted he let her sit with him to take the tedium out of his day. In lieu of that, she brought him a history book to read, but he claimed he had no concentration. All he did was brood and smoke. And continuously ask for his dog. She had to tell him animals didn’t belong in the house. Swearing became a part of answers, especially when she had to deny him. She would have reprimanded him on his language, but felt she was already holding too much authority over his daily life. She didn’t like keeping Obsi away, but she had strong convictions that pets had their place—outside, where their fleas and other small bugs that tagged along in their fur couldn’t invade the household and its occupants.

  Carrigan was up only for the essentials, and even then he complained bitterly because it meant she knew he was human and had to answer nature’s call. Despite his grumbles, he slowly continued to improve each day. The edges of his wound had pinkened. Today she would remove the dressing and leave it off so the area could scab. But even though the outside was healing, she saw he was still in terrible pain. Each move he made with his arm brought him anguish. The muscles inside were damaged in such a way that no matter how he lifted his arm, he struck a cord in one of the damaged tendons. She hadn’t realized until she saw Carrigan struggling to hold a fork, how connected side muscles were to the body, and how crippling the lack of their full use could be. But he wouldn’t let his weakness overcome him.

  This morning when she’d brought him his breakfast, she’d caught him with his Colt in his right hand. It had taken her several stunned heartbeats before she realized that he wasn’t pointing the gun at her. He was using its weight to exercise his arm.

  “I think it’s unwise to be doing that,” she said while setting the tray down.

  Ignoring her, he held the grip, lifted the revolver to his chest, then lowered it to his side. His brow was washed in a slick sweat, and his square jaw so tense with agony, she feared he would cause himself further injury.

  “You’re expecting too much, too soon.”

  But Carrigan was not the type of man who took criticism, no matter how well intended. He had said nothing. She’d left him alone, feeling an ill temper rise in her beyond measure. For all the hours she’d put into fixing him, there was nothing she could do to prevent him from doing what he wa
nted in that bed.

  Three days ago she’d found out he had already packed his belongings the day he’d been shot, and they were in a satchel near the shed of his corral. With two horses not running because they lacked proper shoes, with one mare ready to foal, and with measuring out frugal portions in their last haystack, Eliazer hadn’t been able to get away to retrieve the bag.

  Helena had had Ignacia launder Carrigan’s trousers and clean his coat, but the shirt hadn’t whitened even when left under the sun to bleach, so it was now a member of the rag pile. The pants and freshly polished boots had been put in Carrigan’s room, while the buffalo coat was downstairs on a hook next to her cloak, looking out of place.

  “Helena?”

  Helena was pulled from her thoughts by her sister’s voice. “Yes, Emilie?”

  “Mrs. Doyle just said she requires two pounds of pearl barley.” Emilie stood behind the store counter opposite Helena’s, giving her a searching stare. For the past six days, they’d been civil toward one another, but the relationship between them had clearly been strained by her hasty marriage to Carrigan and his presence in the house.

  “Of course,” Helena replied, turning to the bins of dry grains. She grasped the scoop and began to fill a sack, wanting to be anywhere but in the store under the concern-filled gaze of Mrs. Doyle. But the crisp, clear morning had brought in a steady flow of customers, and Emilie had required the assistance.

  “It’s such a tragedy about Mr. Gray,” Mrs. Doyle lamented into her handkerchief. Her dress was a volcano of brown and ecru eiderdown, the sunbonnet on her round head so stiff, the brim would have snapped in two separate pieces under pressure. “My George laid him out in such a very fine manner, you know.”

  And Helena had received the unrestrained bill as proof. Not that Mr. Doyle had been disrespectful when he’d given it to her, but his services weren’t frequently needed, and when he did get a client, he had no choice but to overcharge the bereft party. Though Helena doubted it was actually Mr. Doyle setting the high prices. Mrs. Doyle took in ironing to sustain them during hard times, and Helena suspected the woman’s chagrin at having to do so was what drove her to making up the charges, for it was a slanted feminine script on the statement.