Crossings (15 page)

To her amazement, Helena acknowledged being in awe of her husband.

7

A
s he headed back to the store, Carrigan's ears rang with the ceaseless clink of hammers, the buzz of trades, and the hum of drums and flywheels. His muscles were tense, the slightest noise causing him to flinch. The only place he'd been accustomed to had been Gray's general store and stockade—visits he could count on one hand. He'd exiled himself not a mile from the teeming streets, but he may as well have been in a foreign country. On his journey through the center of town, he'd instantly become aware of his ignorance of things he'd never seen before and never felt enough interest in to read about.

Though there had been stares directed at them, the entire population went on as if he and Helena had not existed. People pushed and shoved. No one stopped to view the majestic panorama of the mountains behind the storefronts, nor the impressive tones of Carson Valley's desert sage and grasses below.

He wasn't used to walking over a sidewalk of boards that were more or less loose and inclined to rattle when trod upon. The variety of stores influenced
his desire to buy unessential items and whetted his appetite. Bread the shape and size of cheese wheels was available to purchase without the bother of baking it himself. Boarding and lodging went for ten dollars for a week—a ridiculously excessive amount.

But some things never changed. The rowdy Metropolitan Saloon mirrored the types of bars he'd bellied up to in the past. Swearing, drinking, and card playing were the order of the day, with an occasional fight thrown in for variety. He'd searched for Seaton Hanrahan while taking a look around, but had come up short.

Genoa's populace was composed of different types of characters, but the image that stayed with Carrigan was that of the Washoe Indians, who were tolerated with blind eyes even though they stuck out like sore thumbs. Donned in cloth of loud black and gold stripes, they were squalid in appearance and languid as consumptive forty-niners. Blighted hope dimmed the pride from their eyes, their complexions sallow like yellow jackets.

Helena wasn't as offending as most who passed by the sorry souls, but she was just as ignorant of their plight. What would she say were she to learn his mother's Choctaw blood flowed through his veins?

“Thank you for speaking with Mr. Lewis and Mr. Wyatt,” Helena said from her place at his side.

“Don't thank me.” He surveyed the walkways on both sides of the street, keeping an eye out for a glimpse of Hanrahan. As he'd only been face-to-face with him once, Carrigan's picture of him wasn't entirely clear. But he'd recognize that decorated black hat amongst the mostly rough-used ones on the men in town. “Don't make out what I did to be a gallant act. I want my land. As long as I'm living with you, I'll earn my keep to get it.”

“Here he comes!” came a rousing shout to Carrigan's right. Instinctively he shoved Helena behind
him, drew his Colt, and crouched to the balls of his feet. Obsi set off into frantic barks and snaps of his jaw.

Shaken, Helena gazed at Carrigan as if he were crazy. “What are you doing?”

“Who's coming?” His only thoughts were of some imbecile bent on taking potshots at him.

“Thomas McAllister,” she explained. “The eastern-bound Pony Express rider.”

Carrigan narrowed his eyes, glanced every which way in the cleared road, then slowly rose to his feet. “Obsi, shut up.”

On a last snort, Obsi whined.

Reholstering his gun, Carrigan scowled. He felt like an idiot. “Why the hell are they yelling about it?”

Taking him by the bulk of his sleeve, Helena hurried across Nixon Street in a flurry of skirts. “I forgot you've never seen the exchange of horses.” They went up the curb, and she let go of him. “Look down there.”

Coming across the continual plain of the southern valley, a black spot materialized against the horizon. The naked eye could see it obviously moved. In a second or two the speck grew more readily defined as a horse and rider, rising and falling with the tempo of the animals swift gait. The duo swept toward town. Nearer and nearer, the tremble of hooves came to Carrigan's ear. In another instant, a whoop and hurrah erupted from the crowd as man and horse bore down Nixon Street, heading directly for him. The facility and pace at which they traveled was a marvel to Carrigan. A horn blew as the rider brought the instrument to his mouth, then he gave a coyote yell.

With his broad slouch hat brim blown flat up in front, and leaning gently forward, Thomas McAllister seemed to be a part of the horse. He burst past Carrigan like a gale. Silver-mounted trappings decorated both man and beast. McAllister wore a uniform with plated horn, pistol, scabbard, and belt. Flower-worked
leggings, a gaudy red shirt, and jingling spurs added to his distinctive costume.

He couldn't have weighed more than three fifty-pound sacks of flour, but no finer-looking man ever rode a horse. The pony was a splendid specimen of speed and endurance, dashing toward Gray's relay station speckled with foam and with nostrils dilated. Excitement brightened Emilie's eyes as she waited, her hands clasping the strap of a canteen. Eliazer held the reins of a fresh mount, which Carrigan recognized as being one of the mustangs he'd caught for August.

Helena ran to the corner. Caught up in the spectacle, Carrigan went after her and stopped just short of Eliazer and Emilie.

Reining to an abrupt halt, McAllister dismounted. Carrigan could smell the horse's coat reeking with perspiration while his flanks thumped with every breath. Standing straight as an arrow, Thomas McAllister had a determined expression. He took the water from Emilie with a wink. Her cheeks blushed a fair rose as he drank deeply to sate his thirst.

There was only a second or two delay as Helena ran from the corner and threw a saddlebag with four locked compartments over the modified saddle of a fresh mount. McAllister tossed Emilie a round package no bigger than a fist and tied at the top with string. Then he stuck his foot in the stirrup and leaped into place. With a dig of Thomas's spurs, the horse darted away like a telegram. McAllister's gauntlet-covered hand lifted in a wave good-bye, and soon his figure was reduced to a mole on the undulating body of terrain to the east.

Carrigan had never witnessed such an event in his entire life.

“It's an orange!” Emilie exclaimed, holding up the thick-skinned fruit for Helena to see. The packaging was stuffed under her arm as she clutched an envelope in her other hand. “And a note. He wrote me a note.” Her voice softened with a tender passion so plain,
even Carrigan took notice of it. The letter, she didn't share with Helena. Instead, she dreamily walked up the steps of the store, her nose buried in the sheet of thin paper.

Eliazer walked the exhausted horse to the stables, but Helena remained on the street, misgivings clouding her gaze. It wasn't hard for Carrigan to deduce her thoughts.

“You don't approve of your sister being in love with that rider.”

Helena's chin came up. “Leave Emilie to me.”

He'd apparently hit a sensitive mark. “Is that why she dresses like a child? You won't let her put on a corset? If so, you're not fooling anyone. I can see she's nearly a woman.”

“She's only sixteen.”

“Woman enough.”

“To make a mistake,” Helena finished.

“Sounds like you're living her life for her.” Carrigan shook his head. “I can tell you now, it won't work. She'll end up hating you for it.”

Helena bit her lower lip. “Emilie would never hate me.”

“Don't give her a reason to. Let her grow up.”

“I'm her only parent,” Helena reasoned.

Carrigan recalled August telling him in passing he was a widower, but Carrigan didn't know the circumstances and for how long. “You're her sister. Not her mother.”

Helena gazed at him as if she were taking his comment into consideration. Then she frowned. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you kept your opinions about my sister to yourself.”

He no longer felt the need to argue with Helena. She believed she had her sister's best interests at hand. What did he have to gain by contradicting her?

Helena went into the store, while Carrigan opted to stay outside a moment longer. He leaned against one of the shady awning posts and lit a cigarette. Blowing
smoke through his lips, he gazed at the street, which had returned to normal. He was an outsider and always would be. He no longer fit in with society, for his view of life far differed from that of those around him. He put a high priority on nature and its gifts, but the beauty went unobserved by this bustling throng. It was no wonder he rarely came down from his mountain.

His eyes searched once more for Hanrahan, but there was no conspicuous black hat in the sea of dingy crowns. Exhaling, he crushed his smoke beneath his bootheel and readied to return to the store. Turning, he detected a silvery light from the upstairs window across the street.

The prominent name on the building front read
COURTHOUSE,
but it had been a livery at one time. Paint from the old sign was just visible enough for him to read. The gleam came again as an object behind the glass caught the sunlight. Carrigan squinted to make out an image, and was able to define the silhouette of a man. Whether he was watching him intentionally, Carrigan wasn't sure. But the mere fact that he'd been observed while enjoying his smoke had him suddenly longing for the privacy of his cabin.

*  *  *

Carrigan had to be made of rawhide, because he was just as tough as leather.

The next morning Helena heard him ask Eliazer for a loan of the buckboard. An hour later, he reappeared with his saddle, chaps, and a toolbox. Helena was helping Eliazer align snares in the stockyard garden when the wagon pulled in. Carrigan hadn't told her where he was going, and she hadn't asked. Their discussion yesterday about Emilie and Thomas had upset her. Her anger had abated somewhat, but its warm glow was still on her mind.

She didn't pause from her task, hearing Carrigan before she actually saw him. The jangle of spurs came to her ears, and she lifted her gaze. He strode toward
her in glove-fitting boots to which long-shanked spurs where attached and kept on with broad, crescent-shaped shields of leather laid over the insteps. The big sunset rowels dragged on the ground when he walked. Pliable calfskin vamps fit tightly over the top of his feet, giving the appearance he'd poured his calves into his boots. He'd changed into a pullover yoked shirt in a striped hickory with a row of four buttons spilling down from the collar. A buckskin vest, rather than his coat, didn't restrict his freedom and was an effective buffer against the temperature, which was brisk, but not penetrating.

He stopped in front of her, and she tilted her chin upward. The brim of her straw hat shaded her eyes from the deep blue sky above. Carrigan's voice melted down to her. “You said you've got two horses that need shoeing. Get 'em.”

“You want to shoe them now?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your offer, and Lord knows I desperately need them shoed, but you haven't had enough time to mend. I can manage awhile longer now that I have feed.”

“I know my limitations, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit in the house like a cripple.”

Helena thoughtfully gazed at the young cabbage shoots, which already had been nibbled on by rabbits. She didn't like humdrum jobs like setting traps, hoeing, planting, and weeding. But she did them just the same because Eliazer couldn't do it all. Horses, however, were another matter. For anything involving them, she'd lay down her spade with pleasure.

“All right.” Standing, she clapped the damp soil from her hands and stretched the kinks out of her legs. “But you'll need help.”

“You got a resister?”

“I wouldn't call Columbiana a resister. She just knows what she likes and what she doesn't.” A
revealing smile caught Helena's mouth. “And she doesn't like getting new shoes.”