Crossings Page 9

  Heaven help her, this union in name only wasn’t as impersonal as she thought it would be. Wanting anything more from Carrigan in return would be fatal. Sometimes a woman couldn’t be driven out of a man’s arms, even if she didn’t want to be there.

  And she was an awful driver.

  * * *

  The Genoa courthouse was one and a half stories high with whitewashed clapboards in front and rough boards standing up endwise on the sides. It had shakes for a roof, at the peak of which full water buckets had been strategically placed in case of fire. The building had once been a livery, and Judge Kimball held sessions of court in the renovated loft.

  Helena held on to the rickety banister as she ascended the outside steps to Bayard’s office, hoping to find him in at the supper hour. She’d delayed her own meal, wanting to put things in order between her and Bayard before the day passed.

  Raising her hand to the door, she knocked lightly on the upper pane of glass. After a moment, the door was answered. Bayard stood in the doorway, looking the worse for wear. He’d unknotted his silk tie, which he was usually very fastidious about. The ends hung unevenly over his lapels. His vest was unbuttoned, the fob of his watch dangling against his trim waistline.

  “Helena.” Her name was spoken with bittersweet fondness.

  “Have you a moment?” she asked. “I’d like to talk with you.”

  Silently he stood aside and allowed her entrance.

  The ceiling was high, the rafters exposed and blemished from previous rain damage. Remnants of grain and horse left a scent in the wood despite not being in residence for quite some time. Parted, dusty portieres spilled their abundant hems to the floor, framing the large picture window that looked down on Main Street. Spittoons, splattered tobacco residues, and heel marks monopolized the floor in front of the bench—which was really just an ancient chair where Bayard enthroned himself to dispense justice and sarcasm in equal parts. She’d witnessed him in action once. He made short work of lawbreakers, imposing high fines and lengthy jail sentences. Despite his eccentric ways, his judgment was unquestionable. He had the full confidence of the townspeople.

  Bayard went to his desk, sat behind it, and offered her a seat opposite from him. An engraved silver liquor flask shone amid the stacks of documents, and he made no move to hide it from her view. Apparently he’d been drinking. And she was the obvious cause.

  “I’m sorry you had to find out about my marriage the way you did.” She kept her purse fixed in her lap, her fingers entwined nervously with the silken cords. “I was going to tell you, but I was waiting until my . . .” Not comfortable saying the word “husband,” she paraphrased, “Waiting for Carrigan to recover.”

  Bayard’s eyes betrayed his brittle anger. “What happened to him?”

  She wasn’t anxious to divulge the extent of Carrigan’s injuries. Since foul play suspiciously clouded the incident, she wanted to keep it to herself. There would be enough talk circulating without the added information. “He had an accident.”

  “What kind?”

  “He fell off one of his horses and hurt his ribs.” Bayard’s frown caused her to hastily add, “It really isn’t important how he was injured.”

  “It’s important when I’ve made my intentions clear. Despite the stability and protection I offer you and your sister, you insult me by marrying a man you know nothing about.” Shoving a pile of papers to the corner of his desk, Bayard pressed, “My God, Helena, what made you do it?”

  She looked at her lap and absently twisted the circlet of gold around her fourth finger. There was no longer a reason not to wear the ring. “He had something I needed.”

  “It couldn’t possibly be money. He can scarcely scrounge enough to sustain himself.”

  “It wasn’t money I was after.” Lifting her chin, she met Bayard’s gaze. “It was his reputation.”

  “His reputation?” Bayard spat with incredulity.

  Though Bayard would have understood the absolute truth better than her waxed-over interpretation, she couldn’t tell him any more.

  “I’m so very sorry for having hurt you,” she said with real regret. “I never meant to. Our family has been close to you since we arrived in Genoa. I’d hate to lose your friendship over this.”

  Bayard seemed to be weighing her words for merit, and considering his options. After a length, his features softened, though the lines of remorse didn’t lessen around his mouth. “Regardless of what’s transpired, you can always come to me for advice.”

  Her sigh of relief was nearly audible, the pressure in her breast lightening to a certain degree. “I appreciate that.”

  She quietly stood, gave him a consoling smile, then left the office without making a sound as she closed the door.

  * * *

  Bayard remained motionless after Helena left. Lifting the flask to his lips, he drank a generous portion. Helena had meant everything to him. She was all that a politician’s wife should be, and then some. He had been modestly courting her from the moment he’d met her. Losing her to a man like Carrigan was galling.

  Good Lord, what had she been thinking? He would have done anything for her. Anything. Except let her continue to run that Pony Express station once they’d been married. A wife of his couldn’t have had manure beneath her shoes. But she was a wife he couldn’t have now, and it was killing his hopes.

  The coming months without her would harm him. He needed a decent woman by his side if he was to be in the running as a candidate for governor. Congress was in the process of appropriating twenty thousand dollars a year in greenbacks for its support of the fledgling territory. A paltry amount, but Bayard would see the funds well spent. He did an exemplary job as the chief justice of a one-man court. The governorship should rightfully fall on his shoulders.

  Bayard knew there were those who would call him a hard-nosed judge for his harsh rulings and edicts. He was but a man, swayed like other men by vehement prejudices—though he would never call it corruption. Heaven sat in judgment of him, and what did Heaven care how he secured his happiness? His one and only fault was loving Helena Gray with all his heart. Without her, the principle foundation of his future crumpled.

  Movement in the curtains caught Bayard’s eye. Glancing toward the distraction, he said in a flat tone, “She’s gone. You can come out now.”

  Chapter

  6

  The dog’s whines woke Helena from a sound and heavy sleep. A crescent moon lit her bedroom. Shadows flitted across the wall, the source a poplar tree outside being disturbed by the breeze. Tired as she was, she hugged the blankets, rolled over, and drifted off for a scant second before Obsi’s cries intruded again. She opened her eyes once more. Resentment never made a good bedfellow to wake up to, for at this moment, she resented that dog with every muscle she reluctantly stretched. Yawning, she rose and put her feet over the side of the moss-filled mattress.

  Her thighs were tangled in the hem of her nightgown. When she stood, the lawn fabric floated to her stockinged feet. She grabbed her plain wrapper from the end of the bed and slipped her arms into the sleeves. As she descended the stairs, the sound of claws scratching on the kitchen door carried through the house. For the first time in six days, Obsi was making a pest of himself. It had to be because he’d seen Carrigan in the yard today.

  Helena wasn’t averse to dogs. In fact, the family had had one when she was a little girl. But dogs had their place. And their place was outside to let the occupants inside know if there was an intruder on the property. Obsi’s cries now were not ones of warning. They were quivering begs to see Carrigan. Well, she was absolutely not letting Obsi in. And she was absolutely not going to let him keep her awake.

  Helena released the latchstring from its position of being pulled in at night for security’s sake, then lifted the bar. Obsi’s nose poked into the crack before she had a chance to fully open the door. Shoving her knee through, she kept him at bay and slipped outside to reprimand him. The wind went right through her clothing, cau
sing her to shiver.

  Obsi barked once, and scudded away. He instantly came back to sniff her.

  “It’s not your master, if that’s what you were hoping,” she said, holding her wrapper together. “I’m not letting you in, so you can save your barks.”

  A half howl, half yap was his response.

  Bending down, she lightly tapped Obsi on his nose. “Be quiet. Bad dog. You’re going to wake everybody up.”

  Apparently Obsi didn’t take being disciplined seriously. He lowered himself onto his hindquarters and stared. Crossing her arms under her breasts, she studied him. The name Obsidian suited him. Beneath the silver moonbeams, his long-haired coat shone a glassy black. His ears were pointed, but there was no curl in his slender tail. Those long, stiff hairs above his brows tweaked with his eye movements. He watched her just as intently as she did him.

  No longer wary of his bite, she gave him the last word. “Just be quiet or you’ll get no more sugar lumps from Eliazer.” She let herself into the kitchen. But no sooner had she closed the door than the mournful cries started in again.

  * * *

  There were times when Carrigan was dreaming that he’d begin to jump, feeling the bullet hitting him. If he moved his arm the wrong way, that sudden searing pain felt like the slug still entering and moving in him. He would wake in a cold sweat and be unable to return to sleep.

  Lying on top of the rumpled bedclothes in the room hallowed by the moon’s majesty, he propped his back against the pillows with one leg bent, and a cigarette dangling between his lips. The bottom of a whiskey bottle rested on his knee, the neck in his grasp. Intoxication wasn’t a part of his daily habits. He never got so drunk he spoiled his health or clouded his mind. The whiskey helped him return to sleep. Though at this hour, it wasn’t working. For he had done nothing tiring the whole day except visit his horses and dog.

  And almost kiss Helena.

  Carrigan took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. She was the root of his insomnia. The woman saw him as a trump card and would discard him in six months. Knowing what was expected of him, he had no problem with that. He’d be well compensated for his time. What bothered him was the element lying hidden in the contract. A magnetic attraction toward her.

  The stairs creaked, signaling Helena’s return. He’d heard her go down a few minutes ago, no doubt to lecture Obsi on his midnight serenade. As much as Carrigan wanted his dog with him, he wouldn’t go against the rules of the house. Respect was a serious thing to him. But that still didn’t mean he had to give way to Helena’s way of thinking. She was wrong. Dogs and men belonged together at all hours.

  On the other side of his door, the footsteps paused. Then the door slowly rasped inward and Helena peered around its edge.

  “Don’t sneak around on my account,” Carrigan said as he crushed his smoke in a chipped dish on the quilt. “I’m awake.”

  “So am I. No thanks to your dog.” She remained where she stood, obscured by the door except for her head.

  “Now that I’ve been resurrected in his eyes, he wants to be with me.”

  “You know I don’t approve of dogs in the house.”

  “So you’ve said plenty of times.”

  “Well, just so you’ll know.” Then she let the door open all the way, and Obsi shot out like a streak from behind her. He pushed his muzzle into the hand that Carrigan was resting on the covers. Obsi’s tail moved side to side in a half circle.

  As Carrigan buried his fingers in his dog’s thick fur to stroke his ears, he lifted his gaze to Helena. She was an ever-changing mystery. “What made you give in?”

  “A greater need to sleep tonight rather than stand on ceremony.”

  Obsi smacked his tongue like he was licking his chops, then he jumped onto the foot of the bed, sprawled out, and put his chin on his paws.

  Though the light was not the best, Carrigan could make out Helena’s distinct frown. “If he makes one sound, if he piddles on the floor, if he brings fleas and cockleburs into your bed, I’m holding you accountable and will assume you’ll correct, clean, or change it. Posthaste,” she added with a prudish squaring of her shoulders.

  “Are you henpecking me?” he queried in a humorous tone she was too worked up to appreciate.

  Night drew her blond hair down in a thick braid that tumbled carelessly over her right breast. The softly curled end reached the curve of her hip. Her pale nightgown and billowing wrapper kept the exact dimensions of her figure from being seen.

  “I don’t find nagging an admirable quality in a . . . a wife,” she replied. “It’s just that—”

  “Helena.” He didn’t let her continue. “I was kidding.”

  She stared at him. “You aren’t the type of man who jokes.”

  “You don’t know me.” Carrigan set the whiskey bottle on the candlestand next to the head of the bed. Lowering his leg, he felt the stubble on his chin. Earlier he’d bathed from the washbasin, but hadn’t had a razor to shave. He grew a thick beard, and the lower half of his face was rough with a week’s growth.

  “I know that you abhor men forcing unwanted aggressions on women,” she said. Her discreet attempt at sudden modesty by way of a hand lifted to her high-neck collar didn’t escape his attention. “That you say and do things no matter the consequences just to make yourself feel better. And that you’ve killed people.”

  “Men, not people. People would include women,” he corrected, but other than that, he didn’t defend himself.

  “There was a reason you killed those men.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “No.”

  Licking the flavor of liquor off his lips, he mused, “What can I say in return about you? You’re independent, yet you know your limitations. You hate to admit you’re wrong, but you will. And you’re afraid of me.”

  “I am not,” she shot back, the fingers at her throat sinking into the cotton ruffles.

  “Of course you are. But it’s a fear that loves the idea of danger.”

  The tremor in her voice betrayed her. “That’s absurd. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then prove you aren’t.” He gave her a long, steady look. “Come here.”

  She hesitated a moment. Stepping forward, she approached the bed. Once at its edge, she released the grip on her wrapper and lowered her arms to her sides. “I’ve been this close to you before.”

  Carrigan’s voice was seductive and low when he said, “But you and I both know things are different now.” Wanting to since she’d come into his room, he brought his fingers around the rope of her hair. He rubbed its silky texture against his thumb and drew her face closer to his by gently pulling on the length. “I told you that I didn’t need anyone, but that’s a lie. Without you, I would have died.” Her generous eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as he continued bringing her toward him. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like needing you.” He’d maneuvered her face within inches of his. “And that doesn’t mean I won’t walk away at the end of the six months.” Her startled breath was hot on his chin. “Because I will.”

  His last words were smothered on her lips as he took possession of her mouth in a kiss burning with intensity. The exchange was like a homecoming. Kissing conveyed joy and sorrow, the sealing of promises, and the receipt of fulfillment—emotions he’d run from. The long dormant feelings had no less affect on him now. Rather they seemed stronger and more stimulating than he thought possible. His senses indulged in the pleasure, while his mind marveled at the harmony.

  Releasing Helena’s braid, his hand cupped the back of her smooth, ivory neck to hold her head immobile. Like a man parched from endless days in an arid desert, he drank in the sweetness of her kiss. Three years had been too long to go without touching a woman’s petal-soft lips.

  Helena’s palms clutched his bare shoulders in protest when his tongue slid between her lips.

  “You don’t like this?” he murmured.

  “It’s just that . . . it’s been a
long time.”

  “For me, too.” The implication of her words didn’t immediately register. When they did, a firebrand of jealousy ignited in him. “You were married before?”

  She carefully kissed him back, a sure sign she was dodging his question.

  So be it, then, and to hell with answers.

  He deepened her efforts, wanting to obliterate her memory of any other man’s kiss. His own secrets haunted him, so he could find no fault in hers. It was safer to remain silent about the history of one’s heart. The ghosts of old loves were merely apparitions that vanished into smoke at dawn.

  Capturing Helena on his lap, Carrigan secured a free arm around her waist, mindless of the discomfort to his injury. He was putting more into this moment than was wise. Repercussive thoughts and negative reasons fled.

  “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .” She struggled to lift her head, and he reluctantly released her. “This isn’t part of the bargain.”

  With his hand on the small of her back, he pointed out, “You said no sex. Kissing is merely an ingredient. Like fruit without sugar, it can be consumed and enjoyed on its own.”

  “You have your definition, and I have mine.” Helena rose and fell back a step. “Kissing is the prelude to intimacy. And I can’t be intimate with you.”

  “Why not?”

  She gazed at him with moonlight shimmering in her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I can’t understand what I don’t know.”

  “It’s impossible for me to tell you. I think it’s best if we remember our living arrangement is only temporary, and anything beyond a noncommittal attitude toward one another would be inadvisable.” Retreating to the door, she paused. “I meant to remove your bandages tonight, but my mind was otherwise occupied. I’ll take them off in the morning.”

  “I can manage on my own.”

  With a final glance in his direction, she left.

  The only noise was Obsi’s contented sniff, and the unevenness of Carrigan’s breathing. He’d gone over the line, knowing full well the boundaries. He never should have kissed her. Because now he wanted to kiss her again.