Crossings (12 page)

The cold wetness of the dog's nose was a sober
awakening. One that Helena wished she'd had the foresight to give herself. Carrigan held her at arm's length, then let go. Obsi's long hair brushed her fingers as he tried to climb on Carrigan's lap and seek overdue affection from his master.

Helena disentangled herself and stood. Smoothing her skirt and cloak with trembling fingers, she called herself every kind of fool. Her behavior was an unbecoming weakness that proved she'd learned nothing from her past experiences.

She heard Carrigan struggle to stand, but she didn't aid him. Once he was safely on his feet, she started for the yard. He followed with a stiff gait, and so did the dog. Obsi trotted close to Carrigan's heels, darting this way and that with little yaps. At the kitchen door, Helena let herself in and waited for Carrigan. He came inside. Obsi put his front paws on the threshold as if he'd be given free admittance now that he was reunited with his owner.

“Not you,” she scolded. As soon as she closed the door, Obsi began to scratch on the panel.

She didn't have to look at Carrigan to know he was angry. So was she. He'd made it known it wasn't just her companionship he craved when he'd almost kissed her.

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.”

6

T
he 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, causing 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.