Crossings (18 page)

“Red Springs, last I knew.”

“You don't correspond with them?”

He gave her a dubious scowl. “Now, how would I do that?”

“A letter.”

“Before this town was here, there was no way to post one.”

“There is now.”

Carrigan fixed his gaze on the stars. “Been too many years to start up writing.”

“But what if they think you're dead?”

“I've been dead for a long time, only my body just doesn't know it.”

His cryptic statement sounded ordinary to Helena when it should have made her pale. She never used to think about dying. But seeing how fleeting life could be had made Helena aware that every moment on earth deprived people of a portion of life and advanced them a step toward the grave. When she was five, she thought her mother and father would live forever. That she and Emilie would never grow up and be old. Until her father sat her down and explained mortality. She hadn't wanted to believe there was a gate in Heaven for her to walk through and had cried. It was only after she first experienced death—one of the Sully girls had drowned—that Helena accepted the truth. What Father hadn't explained was what it meant to lose everything dear to your heart and feel like your soul was dead, only you were still breathing.

Helena knew exactly how Carrigan felt.

Fingering the hay beneath her hand, Helena absently twirled a piece. “What are you going to do on the land when I turn it over to you at the end of the six months?”

“Same as always. Sit and be alone.”

Helena looked at him. “But do you really want to?”

“Really want to what?”

“Be alone?”

Carrigan kept his eyes forward. “Obsi's there to keep me company.”

At the sound of his name, Obsi came. For the first time, he went to Helena and laid his chin on her knees for her to scratch him. She'd always been watchful of the dog, but now she put her hand in his fur and gently stroked his ear.

“Where did you get the furnishings in your cabin?”

“People leave things behind when they attempt to pass over that mountain. It's not as easily conquered as they think.” Carrigan turned his head in her direction. “Why do you ask about being alone?”

“Something happened to you to make you run
away.” Her voice lowered. “That's why you're alone. Because you're afraid.”

His gaze riveted to hers. “I'm not afraid of anything.”

“You're afraid of yourself.”

“What makes you such an authority?”

“Because I'm doing the same thing, only I can't leave my sister. So I stay and feel alone even though others are around me.” After the words were out, she couldn't believe she'd made such a confession to Carrigan, of all people.

Carrigan stared at her for an eternity without speaking. Then he lifted his hand to her hair, and she involuntarily froze. Obsi nudged her fingers with his cold, wet nose, but she couldn't move. When Carrigan withdrew his arm, he held a strand of alfalfa he'd plucked from her hair. “Looks like you've been rolling in the hay.”

His lack of any outward emotion or comment that verified he'd heard her compelled Helena to say, “You are afraid. Admit it.”

“Fear doesn't know me.”

“You're lying.”

His work-toughened fingertip slipped across the curve of her cheek. “Seems we're going to be accusing each other of that. Maybe we better stop fooling ourselves.”

Her pulse tripped. She knew what he was implying and what was to come. She couldn't go through with kissing him again. Not if she wanted to keep her objectives from getting clouded by irrational feelings that served no purpose.

As his head came closer to hers, she tried to stop him. “Don't. You're going to leave, so there's no point to this.”

“But I'm here now.”

“In six months you'll be gone and I'll be alone again.”

“You said you were already alone.” He caught her
chin in his fingers. “So am I.” Then he brought her mouth to his in a show of arrogance that announced he didn't care what she said.

The kiss wasn't demanding and burning like the time before. His lips were lingering and lazy, coaxing her out of her demur.

“I want to see what your hair looks like without a net or braid.” The vibration of his murmured voice on her mouth flared through her. “Is it as curly as the little ringlets that tease your brow?”

“Yes  . . .” The mastery of his kiss was drugging, making her languid and immersed in her rioting senses.

“Take it down for me.”

If she did, her resolution would come tumbling down with the curls. She'd be defenseless and unprotected by her dispassionate facade. “I can't.”

His fingers worked through her confined hair, massaging her scalp and easing the tension that enveloped her. When he found the whalebone comb that kept her curls firmly arranged in a net, she felt his smile sweetening her lips. “Then I can.” The comb's teeth were slid free, and the heaviness of her hair was released to her shoulders as soon as the net was free. If she sat up, the remainder would flow to her waist.

Carrigan put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her next to him, pressing her breasts into the hard strength of his chest. The fullness of her hair curtained them, falling onto his shoulders in a seductive ornament of her femininity. If she had suppressed her first desire to kiss him, she wouldn't be encountering the yearnings that followed.

It wasn't of her own accord she surrendered. She knew she should resist him, but couldn't when his mouth worshiped hers. The longing to be needed by somebody overrode her better judgment. She so wanted to be loved and be in love. To be the wife she should have been. Would have been if only  . . .

The tip of Carrigan's tongue stroked the seam of
her lips, and she gave him intimate entrance. A low groan flowed from her throat, dissolving against him. He brushed her mouth with his tongue as his fingers bunched her hair into his large fists. She heard his intake of breath as he brought his face to the bundle of curls in his grasp.

“Your hair smells like rosebuds before they petal.” He kissed the line of her jaw, then higher to her ear where he whispered, “Fresh and sweet. Just like from a summer garden. Long after I leave, the scent of roses will haunt me.”

Rolling her back into the rustling bed, he put the bulk of his weight on his knees, which were on either side of her thighs. With the iridescent skylight behind him keeping his face in near shadow, he looked bigger, broader, and more powerful. “There's no gown that would become you more than your hair. Even in your weeds, you can't hide the allure of it.” He dipped his head to steal a timeless kiss that sent a thrill through her trembling body.

When his hand rose to the swell of her breast, he deepened the kiss, snuffing the sharp intake of her breath. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as his fingers discovered the soft curve beneath his palm. The decision to relax and sate the need building within her came as he teased her nipple into a peak despite the layers of fabric comprising her bodice. Instinctively she arched toward him, casting all caution to the wind. She told herself making love with Carrigan would be a purely sensual experience and nothing more. When he was gone, she could forget him. She could forget everything.

Giving in to abandon, Helena circled her arms around his neck. She kissed him back with all the emotions raging in her heart and soul. Their breaths fused together in hot, moist clouds that filled the night with sighs.

Obsi gave a tight bark, and had Helena been alert,
she would have realized someone was approaching. It was Carrigan who tore his mouth free and broke the kiss. He put her at arm's length just as eye-opening kerosene light spilled onto them.

Surprise widened Eliazer's eyes at seeing Helena and Carrigan lying wantonly in the haystack. “Ah . . . I'm . . . sorry, Miss Lena,” he mumbled, embarrassment wavering in his tone. His posture was stooped. The strain on his portly figure was a visible discomfort. “I couldn't sleep not knowing about Esmeralda. . . .”

Carrigan stood and extended a hand to Helena. Overcome, she could only stare in speechless horror. Reluctantly she took his offering and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her heartbeat was frantic, her face surely a hue of sunset red. Once she was standing, she hastily shoved her hair behind her back and brushed the hay from her skirt. “I checked on her less than an hour ago and she was progressing, but the labor was slow.”

“I'm going to go in.”

Helena nodded and watched the wire-framed lantern in Eliazer's grasp bob with his awkward steps.

Unable to look Carrigan in the eye, Helena composed her racing pulse and willed herself to regain her detached composure. With the cool night air embracing her, the feelings of wanting she'd felt in Carrigan's arms swiftly scattered. Hard reality set in. So did the shame. If she'd lain with him, he would have asked questions. Questions she wasn't prepared to answer.

Needing to flee from the complications Carrigan's presence evoked in her, Helena made a move to follow Eliazer. Carrigan put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Now who's the one running away?”

“I have to see Esmeralda—”

“Stay.” His eyes were compelling, his voice a husky whisper.

“I can't.” She bit her lip, tasting Carrigan on her mouth. “And after the six months are up, you won't stay either.”

*  *  *

The winds moaned like a human wail against Bayard's office window. Dust clouds blew across Main Street and its intersections. They flitted in rolling billows of hats, tin signs, sagebrush, shingles, and doormats. Vacant lots were stirred into a batter freckled with dirt particles and weeds. The rushing howl that shook the walls and roofs of businesses didn't let up long into the night.

Bayard checked his watch and noted the time of three-twenty. Calling it a night—or rather, morning—he left the Metropolitan Saloon with the cheer of gin warming his blood. Hunched over in his dusty coat, his eyes blinking against the grit, he walked to his modest residence on Poplar Street.

At the corner of Main and Nixon, he paused in the shadows of Mayhew's butcher shop. Across the street was Gray's station. The stockade gates were thrown open, the white skeleton of an ox head on the high bar above giving off an eerie shine. A darkly clothed figure moved through the opening, his tall shape recognizable to Bayard.

The man disappeared for unmeasurable seconds, then horses materialized. They were herded out of the stockyard by encouraging slaps on their rumps. Bayard counted twelve head and one new foal.

The wind muted the sounds of the horses with its shrieks as the mustangs impulsively ran up Nixon Street and headed for the wilderness of the Sierras. When the last one vanished from view, the tall figure closed the gates and was gone before Bayard could approach him.

*  *  *

Eliazer blazed into the kitchen with perspiration circling the underarms of his shirtsleeves. With his
hand bracing his lower back, he announced, “Someone let the horses out.” Then he looked directly at Carrigan. “All of them but yours.”

The three at the table gazed across their breakfast plates at Carrigan. Helena felt a sickening dread work its way up her spine.

“What do you mean? Is the gate closed?” she asked, unable to believe that all twelve horses and one colt had broken loose.

“The gate is closed and the stable is shut tighter than a miser's purse.” Eliazer kept staring at Carrigan. “Someone had to have opened the stockade gate, the stable doors, and the stalls in order for this to have happened.”

Carrigan shoved his plate away in a jerking motion. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“It is suspect that all the horses are gone but yours.”

Helena put her hand to her forehead, where she felt an instant headache blossom. Her horses . . . gone. It couldn't be true. She needed those animals. Without them, she had no means to stay in business.

“Why didn't we hear anything?” Helena said, panic in her voice.
No, no, no!
There had to be a mistake! “My window looks out at the yard; I should have heard something.”

“The wind, Miss Lena,” Eliazer reminded. “When the zephyrs blow, they distort sounds. Whoever let them out must have known the wind would disguise the noise.”

Helena's heart stopped for agonizing seconds. Was it possible Carrigan could have done it? She didn't want to believe he was capable of trying to ruin her, but if she didn't have a station to run, he wouldn't have a reason for being here. . . . No . . . no! He couldn't have . . . not Carrigan. Not to her. But still . . . “Why are only your horses in the stables?” she asked, anger, disappointment, and hurt clashing in her tone.

Carrigan pushed out of his chair and glared at her. “I want the land you promised me. Letting out horses would be a sure way not to get it.”

“What land?” Emilie asked, but her query was disregarded.

“You can't deny it's suspect that only your horses are left,” Helena said.

The fire of his temper pulsed at Carrigan's neck. “You can think whatever you want.”

“If that dog had been outside, he would have barked,” Helena shot back. She was placing blame where it was the easiest to pin, even knowing her accusation was unfair without concrete proof against him. “This is why animals don't belong inside.”

“If I did rustle those horses out, Obsi wouldn't have barked at me. So you can think that over.” Collecting his hat, Carrigan smashed it on his head. “But no one has thought to go after the horses before they get too far into the high country I caught them in.”

Carrigan walked past Helena and down the hall. The fall of his boots hit the stairs hard as he climbed them.

Helena was so upset, she couldn't move. Ignacia, who had departed from the kitchen in the heat of the argument, returned.