Crossings (20 page)

“You can still get them back, can't you?” Helena asked with a faint note of urgency.

“I got them once before,” he replied, not liking her tone. “I can get them again.”

With a fluid swing of his leg, he mounted Boomerang and gave the horse a light nudge in the ribs. Despite the chilly air, the sun beat down on him in simmering rays. His annoyance increased. Her doubt ate at him. Now she was questioning his capability of rounding up the runaway animals.

For the next several hours, Carrigan pushed Helena to ride hard. Somewhat to his irritation, she proved she knew what she was doing in a saddle, keeping up with him and guiding Traveler with a precise hand. She didn't complain about navigating the grueling slopes and precarious ledges, nor did she look the worse for wear. In fact, he'd never seen her look better. The wide-open space seemed to do her good, bringing forth a slight color to the bridge of her nose where the sun caught her skin when she lifted her gaze skyward every now and then to assess the time.

He stopped on occasion to sparingly water the horses, and at noon so they could eat a quick meal. Less than fifteen minutes after Helena brought out a round of bread, cheese, and pumpkin chips, he told her to saddle up. With narrowed eyes, he watched her
for signs of fatigue. None were apparent in her walk to indicate her behind was saddle-sore. The only difference in the sway of her skirt was, she'd forgone a crinoline for the journey. He wanted her to feel the effects of the trail because she didn't trust him. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he chose to make her trip a little hellish for it.

Carrigan pursued the multiple tracks over the northwestern rim of the Sierras. The rock beneath his horse was crumbly like a baked potato, making travel cautious and slow. Just before sunset, he took a high mesa where the hoofprints ran upward and disappeared. Helena reined in tight next to him, following his gaze to the valley below. A gathering of solid-colored horses were cropping meadow grass, but they were too far away for Carrigan to number.

“Do you think they're all there?” Helena asked, her voice exuding optimism.

Turning toward her, Carrigan noticed her lips were slightly parched from the wind. The only sign of her discomfort. But rather than feeling satisfaction, he wanted to caress her mouth with balm to ease its dryness. “I reckon they are. But no way to tell until we get closer.”

The light breeze was against them, and Carrigan wove his way through the towering pine until he was within counting distance. On a visual estimation, there were all twelve head plus the furry colt Esmeralda had delivered the day before.

Helena's impatience had her giving Traveler some lead. “Let's go get them.”

“Not now.” Carrigan bristled, tugging on her cape to keep her back. “I have no place to put them.”

Obsi made a low growl in his throat, his eyes fixed on a magpie pecking at a nut.

“Obsi.” Carrigan warned the dog, who went still, but continued to emit a noise from deep in his throat. “Stay and be quiet.”

The horses picked up on the subdued sound. They
lifted their proud heads and discovered him and Helena in the brush. Columbiana arched her tail and took off in a run. The herd galloped behind her.

Carrigan urged Boomerang after them in a wide circle, not as a chase, but to see where the thundering mustangs would go. The animals only traveled about a mile or so before halting. They rolled their noses and waved their manes.

Helena drew up to Carrigan, winded and with the ribbon of her hat around her neck. The hat itself had fallen down her back. “What are they doing?” she whispered as curls teased her brow.

“Sizing us up.”

“They know who I am. Can't I just call them?”

“Isn't likely they'll come.” Carrigan leaned his forearm on the saddle horn. He felt the stretch in the sleeve of his red mackinaw jacket. “You didn't have them long enough for them to forget about the good life. No saddles, no riders  . . .” He lifted his mouth in a sarcastic smile. “No geldings. That flashback alone would make me run for the high road.”

Helena saw no humor in his remark. “You said you need a place to put them. Where? What do we do?”

“Nothing tonight.”

“Nothing,” she mumbled incredulously.

“No.” Carrigan wheeled Boomerang around. “We're going to make camp. Our horses aren't fresh enough to give any of them a run tonight. Besides, I've got to find a spot that I can make a corral. Don't know if all those horses will take a string or not. I'd rather be prepared if they don't.”

The sun was getting low, and the breeze diminished as they made their way over the back hills. Clouds of every color from the deepest purple to the palest pink hosted the twilight sky. In the midst of the puffs, the sun sank in a halo of bloodred light. Over the next ridge, Lake Tahoe flooded the panorama. It looked like a golden sheet between the deep gray banks and clumps of spruce.

He heard Helena's intake of breath as she got her first glimpse of the picture. The lake was a vast oval walled in by a rim that towered above it. The water lay there with the shadows of mountains brilliant upon its still surface.

“You've never seen it before?” he asked over his shoulder.

Helena shook her head. “My father intended to take us girls, but Emilie doesn't like camping and didn't want to come. It seemed like there never was a spare moment for just Father and me to go.”

Carrigan kneed Boomerang to higher ground were the grass wasn't too turfy. A wall of rock presented itself in a natural indentation caused by the wind.

“We'll camp here.” He swung his legs down and began to unload the bacon, sack of beans, small bag of coffee, sugar, flour, some tin cups, a coffeepot, and frying pan he'd carefully packed in canvas. Helena's horse was carrying the hackamores and ropes, as well as an ax and saw in case he had to make an enclosure.

Carrigan made no offer to help Helena remove the gear from her horse. He tended to his own, unsaddling and ridding Boomerang of his sweat blanket. From a glance, he could see Helena was doing the same. He had no qualms about her taking good care of Traveler. She was kindhearted toward horses, never abusing or neglecting them. And she was strong, too. It took a great deal of strength to handle the heavy saddle, but she did so without a hard struggle.

As soon as Carrigan had Boomerang picketed for the night near a seep spring and plentiful grass, he set out to gather firewood, keeping within hearing range of where he left Helena. Obsi trotted along, exploring the brush with his muzzle halfway hidden in the grass and leaves. No longer the victim of Helena's stare, Carrigan walked at ease. But the night was going to be a real short one if she kept on with her dedicated vigil on his person. He'd clue her in quick that no one messed with him.

When Carrigan returned, he noted Helena had lined up all the equipment in military rows. Her bedroll—with the Sharps at her saddle pillow—was made as neat as a bakery pie. The waterproof tarp enclosed by a couple of sugans was strategically placed next to where he assumed she wanted the campfire to be. She'd arranged a ring of bleached riverbed rocks.

Carrigan strode into the camp and deposited the rough-barked and twisted boughs of sagebrush into the pit.

“I'll fix supper,” Helena offered.

“I can do it.” Carrigan preferred to cook the meal himself. He wasn't accustomed to being waited on. Taking his meals with the rest of them at the station without lifting a hand didn't feel right to him. He'd done for himself too long to give up his independence when it came to a skillet. He could hold his own and prepare a passable dish. Years of experimenting, with spices adding flavor to his meat and vegetables, had turned him into a veteran cook. He even bet he knew a few tricks Helena didn't.

Helena put her hands on her hips, the level of her shoulders not so straight as they'd been in the saddle. She was running out of energy. “What should I do?”

“Get me some water.” He handed her the coffeepot. “Don't get it from the lake. Use the spring. And maybe you better take that Sharps with you. Wild animals could chew you up.” When she made no comment, he added, “That is why you brought the rifle?”

“I brought it for protection.” Her expression veiled any thought she was holding. “If something were to happen to you, I'd need to defend myself.”

“Nothing's going to happen to me unless you point that gun in my vicinity. Then I can see a problem. Is there one?”

“No.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Without a word, she went off, and he figured they'd cleared up the matter of the Sharps good enough. She knew he wasn't blind to it, so he better not hear the weapon going off for no good reason.

In Helena's absence, Carrigan arranged the wood and struck a matchstick. The end burned azure, then budded into a lusty flame to light the fire. As the wood caught and brightened to a yellow-orange, he grew mesmerized by the fire's beckoning snap. Ghosts of the past rose with the waves of heat. Of its own accord, his mind drifted. He would never understand how Jenny could have wanted death this way . . . by burning. By suffocation and  . . .

The crackling pop of dry tinder belching forth had Carrigan cringing. To him, fire was dangerous and cruel, but he wasn't in a position to slight it. His life depended on its heat source. But little sparks grew demons that had the power to assume the figure of a woman. Jenny. For each time the fire's entrancement caught him, he could see her. The visions used to literally cause him to retch with sorrow, but that had passed over the years. Now the fire just preyed on his heart, squeezing his ribs with a fiendish, convulsing smile of glowing red.

“I said, here's your water.”

Carrigan slowly lifted his gaze. He had no idea how long Helena had stood there, her hand extended with the coffeepot. Muttering his thanks, he took the handle from her.

Over the next half hour, he formulated a simple but palatable plate of skillet cakes with portions of the hickory-flavored bacon. With Helena contributing some of the cheese Ignacia had sent, and piping hot coffee, the mixture filled and satisfied his empty stomach.

Helena ate without saying a word, her gaze periodically taking in the scenery. From their spot, they had
an open view of the lake. As the stars came out, the diamondlike points were reflected off the water.

After supper, Carrigan cleaned up and covered a skillet of pinto beans with water to soak overnight for tomorrow's supper. That completed, he leaned into a boulder still warm from the departed sun and smoked meditatively in the sedate hush. With the mollifying whispers of trees calling to one another, he could forget about his agreement with Helena and the months he had left on their marriage contract. But he couldn't forget about the haystack. His thoughts always went back to that night.

After Helena had retreated for the stables practically on Eliazer's heels, Carrigan had left as well. Needing a chilling bracer to douse his hot state of arousal, he'd combed his hair away from his face with icy water from the basin at the back door. He'd been consumed by Helena, wanting her, but all the while he'd told himself he could be an impartial participant. The act of sex was nothing more than the gratification of his body. He could be detached and think solely of the pleasure copulation brought a man.

Carrigan flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fire with a frown. There was no sadder contradiction for his sorry line of thought. With Helena, nothing came without complexities.

“How are you going to build a corral?”

Helena's question registered in his musings, and he looked at her. She sat on top of her bedroll, one of the wool-batted quilts over her bent knees. The fire's gleam highlighted her coiled hair, making it shine like new coins out of a rich man's pocket.

“Don't think I'll build one just yet.”

“But you said—”

“I changed my mind.” The clink of his spurs intruded on his words as he straightened his leg. He one-handed the fasteners, undoing each strap and setting them aside. “I'm going after Columbiana first.
The others may surrender more easily once they see I've got their leader.”

“If that doesn't work?”

“I'll make the enclosure.”

Sipping coffee to a noisy serenade of coyotes, neither commented further on the subject of horses. Carrigan had his own thoughts competing for his preoccupation, and from the roundabout interrogation he'd gotten from Helena, so did she. That blanket of distrust she had for him could very well have kept her warm until morning.

After a spell, he banked the fire for the night. When he glanced at Helena, he saw she'd drifted off while half sitting and with the cup in her hand. He went to her and took the unfinished coffee, flinging the cooled contents into the grass. Then he gathered the edge of her sugan and brought it to her chin. Before he could walk away, he paused and stared at her.

The sweep of her eyelashes shadowed her cheeks. Exhausted, the adventurous woman had found well-earned sleep. Seeing her so peaceful, and without her courageous expressions, he wondered when she ever did anything for herself. People needed moments to appreciate their good qualities and do something they enjoyed. He knew Helena loved horses, but that wasn't a womanly thing to take pleasure in. Country dances, new dresses and ribbons, and tea socials were the choice frivolities of females. Why had she deprived herself of such diversions? Of letting her sister grow up?

It would seem the intricacies of Helena's past rivaled his own. Had she ever been in love? Who was the man who'd given her the kissing lesson? Not knowing the answers was the best way to keep his distance from her. But of late, he found himself trying to figure her out. Trying to understand why she'd hidden herself away behind the counter of a store, and the door of a stable. Of course, he could never fault or
condemn her for it. He'd done the very same thing on his mountain.