Crossings (13 page)

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.

*  *  *

Helena had concealed the markings of Carrigan's kisses with corn silk powder. Though the rosy blush on her sensitive skin from his beard was greatly disguised, she still worried it could be seen. As she entered the kitchen, she hoped no one would be perceptive enough to notice at the breakfast table.

Ignacia was at the stove flipping griddle cakes, while Emilie set out the syrup crock and covered butter dish.

“Good morning,” Helena said self-consciously.

Heads turned toward the direction of her voice, Ignacia smiling and Eliazer pausing from refilling the fuel bin with kindling.

“Good morning,” Emilie dutifully replied, and put a bowl of applesauce with raisins next to the cream jug and sugar basin. Though in disagreement, the sisters conducted themselves with a strained cordiality when in the company of others. Helena knew she couldn't convince Emilie that her quick marriage had been the right thing to do, so she didn't try to explain herself further. If Emilie saw how Carrigan's commanding presence would help the Express station run smoothly, it might help her understand.

Automatically Helena headed for the cupboard and began to bring down the plates.

“I didn't see the dog in the yard this morning,” Eliazer commented while lumbering to his feet. “Maybe he's taken off for good this time.”

Arranging the flatware, Helena said, “The dog's in Carrigan's room.”

The three of them stared at her, but it was Ignacia who spoke. “You don't allow animals in the house, Miss Lena.”

“I had to make an exception if we wanted to get some sleep.”

Ignacia and Eliazer lived in a bunkhouse on the property and probably hadn't heard Obsi's cries, but Emilie remarked, “The whines woke me up for a minute, but I went back to sleep. I assumed the dog gave up.”

“Well, he didn't.” Folding a towel, Helena retrieved the coffeepot from the stove and deposited it on a decorative iron stand on the tabletop.

They sat down to eat, and no one added anything further to the subject. Helena felt oddly out of place for the first time in her own house while she listened to Ignacia and Eliazer talk about what they had planned for the day. Emilie added her thoughts, the most enthusiastic concerning Thomas McAllister. He was the scheduled rider this afternoon.

A bite of the doughy flapjacks stuck to the roof of Helena's mouth, and she took a sip of sugared coffee to wash the lump down. Her appetite was poor, but she forced herself into finishing what she'd been served. While those around her chatted, her mind kept straying to Carrigan.

Of course, she'd known their kiss had been coming. What had happened in the stables yesterday had presaged the inevitable. She couldn't let herself fall into his arms again. If she did, she'd lose her upper hand in the marriage. But his kiss had been the kind she'd wondered about. Filled with a passion so furious, it pinpointed every emotion and thought she had into one dazzling spear of focus: his mouth on hers.

She didn't know how long it had been since he'd kissed a woman, but she could reassure him he hadn't lost his talent for it. Carrigan expertly monopolized the situation to his advantage, making her weak and wanting. Making her nearly forget her resolve.

“I went up to Mr. Carrigan's property first light this morning and found his satchel,” Eliazer said, breaking
into Helena's thoughts. “The cloth was damp, so I put the bag near the stove to dry. I think everything inside is free from moisture.”

“Thank you.”

Emilie lifted her head and addressed Helena with earnest fear in her eyes. “Have you given any thought to the possibility that whoever shot him may come gunning after us since we're harboring him?”

Helena hadn't told anyone about Seaton Hanrahan's assault, not wanting to add further tension to the household. Though her suspicions about Seaton had merit, she couldn't be sure. If the gunman had been committing a random act—of which thievery generally was the intention—why hadn't Carrigan's cabin been ransacked? “There's no good reason why anyone would want him dead,” Helena hedged. “I'm sure we're safe.”

“I hope so.” Emilie set her fork down. “I'm frightened, Lena. Not only for us, but for you.” The tone of her voice was grave. “I don't want to see you get hurt.”

“No one's going to hurt her or anybody in this house as long as I'm in it.”

They all started at the resonant sound of Carrigan's voice coming from the doorway. His unexpected appearance put Helena at odds, while his state of undress embarrassed her. She should have had the foresight to at least give him one of the shirts from the store so he wouldn't have to continuously go without.

True to his word, Carrigan had removed his bandages. The fresh scars on his chest didn't diminish his appeal. He looked like he lived and worked hard. The flaws and that .44-caliber Colt of his had him resembling a fearsome figure out of a sensational blood-and-thunder story.

Obsi heeled at Carrigan's boots, but as soon as Carrigan strode toward the table, he trotted after him. “I'm not an invalid. I'll eat my meals here instead of in bed.” His gaze searched for a vacant seat. The extra
one was the butter churn they put a braided rug over, but Carrigan wouldn't know that.

Eliazer stood and relinquished his spot. “I was finished. You can sit here.”

Carrigan fell into the seat adjacent to Helena. She rose almost immediately and went to the stove to get his belongings. She held out the bag as Obsi lay down. “If you're going to eat at the table, I think you should put on a shirt.”

He eyed the satchel and took the handles. Opening it, he rummaged through the contents and selected a wheat-colored muslin. As his arms slipped through the sleeves, he caught the attention of Emilie, who hadn't uttered a word since his entrance.

“Morning,” he said, looking directly at her. “We haven't been formally introduced. I'm your sister's husband, Jake.”

“I know who you are,” she returned, her voice small. Pushing her chair back, she stood without clearing her dirty plate from the table. “Excuse me.”

Helena looked at her lap, then at Ignacia. “Could you fix him a plate?” To Carrigan, “Do you want coffee?”

“Black.”

She poured while Ignacia set the pancakes in front of him. After staring at the three of them in turn, he picked up his fork and began to eat as if his presence hadn't all but silenced the room.