Crossings (10 page)

“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.

5

C
arrigan 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 wanted 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.

Helena brought the sack to the scale, the barley coming up short so she had to add another scoopful as Mrs. Doyle went on.

“That was a quality silk lining, you know. The box was of the finest hardwood.”

“And the headstone was real marble,” Helena said, tying off the top of the burlap with a piece of twine. “I know, because it came off my dressing table.”

Mrs. Doyle's full cheeks colored like two apples the sun had ruddied. “My George would have used a marble headstone, but they are so difficult to have sent out here. Other than that, you can't find fault in
the services you were rendered. Paying homage to a departed loved one should be worth any expense—”

“Is there anything else?” Helena queried shortly, irked by the woman's lack of sensitivity.

“Well, yes, there is.” She gave an indignant little sniff, her pointed nose out of joint. “But I think I'll have your sister get it for me. She's such a dear little thing. And not in the least bit impertinent.”

In her voluptuous skirts, Mrs. Doyle squeezed through the merchandise to the other side of the store. Helena had never gotten along with the townswomen. But Emilie did. Helena's interests were vastly different from embroidery, sewing, tried-and-true recipes, and light tittle-tattle.

Helena counted the minutes until noon, when Ignacia would be finished with boiling and hanging up the laundry and could come help Emilie. Then she would be free to escape outside. A sudden knife of commiseration jabbed her, and she knew what Carrigan felt like trapped upstairs in bed. She vowed to tread more lightly with him, even if it meant he overextended himself.

The patron door was opened, and when Helena glanced toward it, Bayard Kimball had entered. Worse than knowing she had to spend hours more in the store was the prospect of encountering Bayard. She'd been avoiding him since her wedding, not wanting to have another conversation with him like the one they'd shared on the boardwalk. His talk of marriage was fruitless and served no purpose. She'd break her new status to him, and everyone else, when she was ready. Emilie, Ignacia, and Eliazer had had to promise her they wouldn't reveal her secret. She was holding out until Carrigan was well enough to make his presence in her life known. For that reason, she'd taken off her wedding ring.

Her days of going without adequate supplies were growing; she didn't know how much longer she could last. But Carrigan would be a far more dangerous
opponent when he had his strength back. Only then could he take command of the situation with one glaring gaze and a voice booming in authority, stopping cold those proprietors withholding their services.