Crossings (11 page)

“Judge Kimball,” Mrs. Doyle greeted, exuberantly. Bayard was respected and well liked for his notolerance approach to defilers of the law.

“Mrs. Doyle. Miss Gray.” Bayard's gaze strayed to Helena, and the warm smile that he gave her was proof of his pleasure. “And the other Miss Gray. What a nice surprise to find you inside, instead of outside in the stables.”

“I'll be there soon enough,” Helena replied over her beating heart as anxiety settled in her breast. She didn't like deceiving Bayard. His friendship had been the one constant in her life that she could count on.

Bayard strode toward her. “Be that as it may, I'm delighted to find you here.”

Mrs. Doyle made a phlegmy noise in her throat. “Judge,” she imposed, “have you ferreted out any culprits in Mr. Gray's killing?”

“I've been left with an empty plate, Mrs. Doyle. No leads, no suspects, no criminals.” Bayard plucked a piece of lint off his dark sleeve. “It's very frustrating.”

“I think the whole incident is bad for Genoa,” Mrs. Doyle sniffed, the ruffle on her bonnet crackling. “We have our ruffians, just like any other western town. But murder. Murder is not to be tolerated.” Expressing her sorrow with a cluck, she sighed, “And two young girls left alone to fend for themselves.”

“They wouldn't have to be alone,” Bayard said quietly, and Helena felt her stomach twist into a knot. “I would gladly take care of them both. Perhaps, Mrs. Doyle, you could convince Miss Gray to marry me.”

“Why, that's a splendid idea!” Mrs. Doyle trapped Emilie's hand in her pudgy fingers, Emilie's eyes widening with surprise. “Dear Emilie would make a wonderful wife!”

“All due respect to Miss Emilie,” Bayard said with
some embarrassment, “I was referring to the other Miss Gray.” He drew up to the counter.

For once, Mrs. Doyle was speechless. She switched her attention to the yard goods Emilie had been cutting for her. Briefly Emilie's eyes leveled on Helena, but Helena was unwilling to confront the controversy in them and shied away.

A smile remained on Bayard's handsome face as he spoke in a soft tone for her ears alone. “You see, I have no qualms about publicly airing my desire to marry you. I won't give up, Helena.”

His words were the voice of his heart, but they pierced deep into Helena's. The artillery to fend him off graciously and without compromising his feelings failed her.

Though the width of the counter acted as a barrier between them, Bayard inclined himself in such a manner as to be close to her without being ungentle-manly given the general store was occupied. Helena could hear the muffled ticks coming from the pocket watch in his suit coat as he studied her face. The admiration in his gray eyes worsened the entire calamity she found herself entangled in. “Forgive me for taking the liberty,” he ventured, “but I've inquired into your accounts at the farrier and at the hay yard. You're past due at both establishments. Let me help you.”

“Judge Kimball . . . I . . .”

“Bayard,” he corrected in a hushed tone. “If you're worried about the true measure of my sincerity, I can only blame myself for not being forthright enough. The extent of my feelings toward you is far greater than you realize. I can assure you that I—”

A commotion erupted from behind the curtain that led to the house. There was a loud thud and a stumble on the staircase. Then a vile curse. Helena's breath left her, just as dread settled itself in her every thought. A large fist gathered the cloth of the partition, and the center was swiped open. Carrigan filled
out the narrow area, his mane of raven hair tumbling over his furrowed brows. The dark stubble on his chin made him appear swarthy and lawless. Tall as he was, he had to dip his head. Knee-high boots molded his calves, trousers hugged his legs, and that infamous holster with its gargantuan gun in residency rode low on his hips. He wore no shirt. The breadth of his smooth chest was openly displayed, the white strip binding his wound a flagrant symbol of his recent ill health.

“Oh my heaven!” Mrs. Doyle screeched, a vermilion stain blotching her neck. “It's that uncivilized native from the mountain!”

“If I don't get outside and feel the wind on my face,” Carrigan blazed in a voice gravelly from plentiful smoke, “I'm going to go crazy. I want to see my dog and horses.”

Helena went to Carrigan and willed him to retreat behind the curtain with a furious plea in her eyes, but he ignored her. The slight wobble in his stance wasn't solely from descending the stairs. Liquor had done its fair share.

“I'm not going back up there until I see my dog and horses.”

“Please,”
she petitioned. “We'll talk about this later.”

“No.” He let go of the curtain and started through the store, his steps heavy and awkward. His gaze fell on Mrs. Doyle and Bayard, who stood in the aisle. “Get out of my way.”

Helena quickly met Carrigan and laid an imploring hand on his naked back. The gesture resulted in a brassy cough from Bayard. Carrigan flinched, swung around too quickly, and had to use a tabletop as support. She should have remembered he wasn't accustomed to being touched and immediately withdrew her hand. His eyes said she couldn't talk him out of going, so she reconciled herself to letting him go.

“Do as you wish,” she ground out, “but you're
headed the wrong direction. This is the street exit. Go through the house.”

She stepped aside when he did as she asked and disappeared beyond the closed curtain. Only then did Helena turn and face Bayard with a silent apology.

“What is that man doing here?” he asked in disbelief.

She had no choice but to respond, “He's my husband.”

Mrs. Doyle sounded as if she were asphyxiating. Emilie's gaze on Helena held a morsel of sympathy. Disappointment was grim at the corners of Bayard's mouth.

“What shall I offer?” His judicial voice faded, losing some of its steely edge to the unexpected blow. “I suppose congratulations are in order, but I'm unable to give my best wishes.”

Carrigan's ill-timed entrance rang through the room like a sullen bell. Terrible regrets assailed Helena that Bayard had had to find out this way. She valued his friendship, and although he would have balked at the news even if it had been offered to him prior to today, her chances of retaining any kind of friendship with him would have been far greater.

Glass broke behind Helena, muffled by the recesses of the living area from where the sound had come. She couldn't explain anything to Bayard right now with Emilie and Mrs. Doyle present, so she excused herself.

Slipping inside the narrow corridor that led to the body of the house, Helena grabbed both her cloak and Carrigan's coat from the horseshoe hooks without missing a step. She passed the side table at the base of the stairs. Carrigan had tipped the unlit globe lantern over, spilling the precious kerosene. Cloying fumes rose from the planked floor, seeping in between the cracks. An oily puddle of kerosene advanced, and it would take her hours to scrub the damage out. Lifting her skirts, she proceeded, mindful of the mess.

A glance in the sitting room didn't turn Carrigan up, so she continued on. She caught him with his hand gripped on the jamb as he passed underneath the doorway into the kitchen.

“You shouldn't have come downstairs,” she said, confronting him on his haphazard route.

The cooking area was the largest in the home, with few solid objects to help him maintain his balance. A trestle table where Ignacia prepared the meals took up the center, while a battered pine table with four chairs sat on the opposite side. The butter churn in the corner served as an extra chair in a pinch. Besides the cast-iron stove, pie safe, an open cupboard holding mismatched dishes, and a pantry with the front made out of blankets that had worn thin, there was nothing else.

Using the trestle's sanded surface a moment, Carrigan said, “I'm going to see my dog.”

“You're drunk.”

Through the hair impeding his vision, his green eyes drank her in. “What of it?”

“If you're looking for sympathy, you've got mine. I'd hate being confined to that bed, too. But pouring liquor down your throat out of self-pity isn't going to help you get better faster.”

“It makes me feel better,” he growled, grabbing hold of the rawhide latchstring and lifting the stout wooden bar on the door. The light of day flooded the opening, and Carrigan squinted into the brightness as he stepped down onto the large, flat stone that served as a doorstep.

Helena shoved his coat at him, then covered her shoulders with her cloak. Though the sun shone in a dazzling brilliance devoid of clouds, a chill leftover from the early morning freeze clung to the air. The northern sides of the buildings and troughs were white with a mantle of frost. Deposits of old snow banked the footings and sleepers of the cabin's floor supports where the sun hadn't been able to melt it yet.

Carrigan managed to ease his coat on, but left the front to hang open. As he walked, his gaze took in nuances of the yard, and he seemed to be taking inventory of things. The rain barrel, smokehouse, lye-making vat, springhouse, and root cellar. What was left of the pathetic haystack, the ten-foot-high posts comprising the stockade gates, the zigzag rail fencing, and the feed bucket Eliazer had left next to a heap of snaffle bits.

“Reminds me of . . .” Carrigan mumbled, but didn't elaborate, leaving Helena to wonder.

At the entrance to the stables, Carrigan raked his hair off his forehead and proceeded into the interior. Sunlight pierced thin beams through minuscule gaps in the roof beams. Eliazer had gone to the lumberyard to buy replacement shingles and had been doing some cleaning earlier in the morning. A manure fork was lying on the hard-packed floor among hinges, bridles, and wagon grease.

Traveler and Boomerang were in the fore stalls where the gates met immediately left and right of the slated wall separating them. They stuck their heads out, and nickering in low rumbles, signaled their want of Carrigan's attention. As he moved closer, their ears came forward. He ran his good hand over their noses and jaws, giving each equal regard while his hoarse whisper reassured them. The bond between him and his animals was evident as their twitching nostrils caught his scent. One corner of Carrigan's mouth pulled into a slight smile.

It was the first time Helena had ever seen him come close to smiling.

Turning toward her, he asked, “Where's Obsi?”

“I'm not sure. I didn't want to tell you, but the night we brought you here, your dog disappeared. After two days, he came back and I fed him.”

“He probably went to the cabin.” Carrigan fixed his concentration on the horses again. “He must think I'm dead.”

“He hasn't run away since, though he does vanish from sight for most of the day. Sometimes he'll follow Eliazer, but only when he rewards him with a lump of sugar. And the dog never eats it from his hand. Only if Eliazer drops the cube on the ground.”

Carrigan leaned against the stall door, grimacing. Exertion did a moderate amount of good when a man was fit, but Helena knew he wasn't up to this. The exercise may have improved his spirits, but it had taxed his strength. He'd pushed himself to the point of severe pain, but he'd never admit that to her. Rather than chide him for it or convince him to return to the house—both efforts a waste of her breath—she took the opportunity to speak about what had been troubling her the past few days.

“I blame myself for your being shot.”

“Yeah? Why would you say that?”

“I've had six days to think about it. There's only one person who had the motive. Seaton Hanrahan.” She waited for Carrigan's reaction, but he had none. “If you hadn't come into the store that day and thrown Seaton out, I don't think you would have been shot.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Blame is a hell of a load to carry around. It gets heavier as the years go by. I suggest you drop it now.”

There was an implication to his words she waited for him to define, but the plaintive sound of a dog at the wide stable entrance caused them both to turn their heads. Obsi sat in the dirt, his black body quivering. The wag of his tail swished the scent of mud into the building.

Carrigan pushed off from the stall and lowered himself onto one knee with a stifled groan. “Obsi. Come.”

The dog ran to Carrigan, licking his hands with excitement, then raised himself on his hind legs to reach Carrigan's face. One eager paw pushed into the cloth binding where the main point of the wound was
located. Carrigan went down on his buttocks with a roar and curse that sent Obsi scurrying backward several feet.

Instinctively Helena rushed to Carrigan. She reached out and lightly rested her hands on his shoulders. Not caring that he wasn't used to someone dictating to him, she said, “I was afraid something like this would happen. You're going back into the house right now.”

A bead of sweat rolled from beneath his hair, curving down his temple. There was a spark of some undefinable emotion in his eyes. He didn't wholly want to be left alone.

“I can help you up,” she offered in a quiet voice that sounded strange to her ears. The revelation that he may actually crave her company had her realizing that it wouldn't be easy to be indifferent in her marriage.

“I'll get up myself.”

“Don't,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You don't have to be so strong. There's no one here but us, and I don't care that you have to use me as a crutch.”

His hands came up to grip her sensitive wrists in a display of strength that took her off guard. He held her hard enough to cause some mild discomfort. “I don't need a crutch. I don't need anyone.”

She whimpered, and the pressure of his hands on her wrists instantly lessened. Pulling away never entered her mind, for it wasn't fear that kept her still. It was the false note in his voice contradicting his words. There was a deeper significance to their visual exchange than she cared to acknowledge. Suddenly she felt ill equipped to face him. She knew what was coming and said nothing. Did nothing to stop him. She couldn't escape his compelling stare even as his head lowered. His mouth descended toward hers and would have caught her lips had Obsi not stuck his head between them.