Crossings (21 page)

Unable to leave her as she was, Carrigan pitched the empty cup toward his cooking gear and bent down to arrange her proper. His hands lifted her limp shoulders and slid her down into the warmth of her bedroll. Saddles made poor pillow cushions, so he shrugged out of his mackinaw, wadded the fabric, and placed it beneath her head. The silkiness of her hair teased his fingers, but he left the pinned curls alone. The next time he took down the thick tresses, he wanted her wearing absolutely nothing else.

Tucking in the quilt that encompassed her, he stood back and continued to watch her sleep for several minutes more. She hadn't made a sound when he moved her, and he didn't think anything could intrude on her deep slumber. If only he could deaden his mind in such a way.

Carrigan left Helena and settled into his own pallet. Obsi soon made himself at home in the covers.

In due time, Carrigan felt himself getting tired enough to sleep. The shore's lapping surf had a lulling sound he found soothing. But it was difficult to get into that dreamless state when he was frequently disturbed by Obsi, who stretched and braced his feet against the length of Carrigan's back. The dog shoved, grunted, and being relatively warm and cozy beneath the blanket, he pawed Carrigan to express his contented comfort.

Just as Carrigan was finally dozing, Obsi began dreaming of the chase—no doubt a heated pursuit of the magpie. He tugged and bit at Carrigan's hair while barking softly in his ear. When an elbow nudging his belly didn't cease the dog's twitches, Carrigan snapped his eyes open with disgust.

For a long time after, he charted the tortoiselike movement of the three-quarter moon as it inched toward a morning sky. He had many regrets in his life. But foremost at this moment was having a dog with
spiny stickers in his fur lying next to him instead of Helena.

*  *  *

The next morning, Helena and Carrigan ate breakfast in a mutual quiet, then left camp just after daylight streaked the sky in a swath of russet. Refreshed after a night of near-uninterrupted sleep, Helena felt up for the long and hard ride ahead.

Carrigan covered ground quickly, heading toward the same mesa as yesterday. Her gaze kept falling on his broad back, and the crown of his gray hat where his hair flowed underneath the brim. Sometime in the middle of the night, he'd put her blankets on and seen to it she was snugly inside her bedroll. She barely remembered falling asleep.

To think he could be so generous toward her, yet sabotage her station, was perplexing and very upsetting. Wayward suspicions continued to occupy her mind. But they were less and less aimed at Carrigan. More were directed toward Bayard. Not that she thought him responsible for her trouble in any way. Bayard wasn't a disreputable character. He wouldn't commit robbery. Especially not against her.

But some nearly intangible feeling that resembled a deep-seated loyalty to Carrigan wasn't wholly convinced by Bayard's story. His account of Carrigan's guilt hadn't won her over as it immediately should have. Uncertainty niggled at her. Before she passed a final verdict, she would watch Carrigan closely. Size him up and put him through the challenge of regaining her lost horses—but not challenge him with her Sharps. That had been a bad idea . . . and an unnecessary one because he'd seen through her plan like glass.

It was almost high noon when they cleared the foothills and Carrigan began to track the prints that were reasonably clear. Over the edge of the mesa the grassland was vacant, and Helena's heart dropped in horrified panic.

Her voice faltered when she asked, “Where are they?”

Carrigan adjusted the brim of his hat, keeping his eyes in gray shadow. His mouth was discernible, as was the slightly crooked line of his nose. A brown tan deepened the color of his skin. “Probably over that next ridge. This might have been their late grazing spot.”

At least as they progressed through the valley, Helena was able to identify the tiny prints of Esmeralda's colt. Just beyond the edge of grass, a line of trees marched in almost a succinct break, as if they'd been intentionally planted that way. Shading themselves beneath the resplendent poplars, the herd sighted them. Rather than bust out of the mottled leaf canopy, they slowly started on with ambiguous reservation. Columbiana led them, the dun mare raising her tail and throwing her ears back. She obviously intended to take them to a more peaceful territory.

“Turn around,” Carrigan cautioned while reining back. With an easy command, he wheeled Boomerang in the opposite direction of the herd.

“Why are we leaving?”

“To have dinner.”

“Dinner?” she parroted incredulously. “The horses are right here. We can get Columbiana.”

“I want her to think we can't.”

Carrigan trotted away, Obsi running alongside the strawberry roan. Helena had no choice but to follow. She was fuming, not at all understanding Carrigan's rationale. The horses were here. They were for the taking, and he was going to ignore them. Did he intend to get them at all? She wondered about his involvement anew.

Ahead, a south-sided bluff was washed in sunlight. Carrigan rode to the top of it and dismounted. Tethering his horse, he stood at the edge of the precipice and smiled. She couldn't figure out why. There was nothing funny. It was only after she'd
wound Traveler's reins around a scrub and walked to Carrigan that she could see what he was so smug about.

They had a perfect view of the herd. Columbiana kept her head high, nose lifted to scent them. But she couldn't. The wind was on their side. After a while, she lay down on the grass and began to roll as if she hadn't a care in the world. Helena wanted to yell at her their friendship was over. When she thought of all the sugar lumps, carrots, and apples she'd treated that horse to  . . .

“Who does she think she is?” Helena said under her breath.

Carrigan let out a low-pitched laugh, as if he were in on a joke she wasn't. “She's a female. And I'm going to best her.”

Helena thought this over while they fed their horses a small amount of oats and took in a meal themselves. But Helena was too excited to eat much, even though Carrigan said she'd be sorry for it later when her stomach was growling. In the early part of the afternoon, they remounted, and Carrigan moved into motion.

“I want you to stay back,” he cautioned while slipping on a pair of rawhide gloves. “If they stampede, they'll run you down and kill you.”

She said nothing.

“You hear me, Helena?” he repeated in a stern tone that bristled. “I said to stay out of the way.”

“I will,” she snipped.

“You do as I say.” Then he gave the dog a talking to. “Obsi. Sit.”

The dog slowly lowered into position, his tongue lagging to one side of his mouth in a brisk pant. For most of the day, he'd been hunting lizards and birds.

Carrigan sat taller and unhooked a sturdy lariat he'd draped over his saddle horn. With great dexterity, he fashioned a big loop. Helena watched him with interest, noting the efficient manner in which he
readied himself. He knew exactly what he was doing, his movements precise.

As a current of air ruffled his sleeves, she couldn't help being favorably influenced by his showy expertise. He cut a dashing picture in his buffalo-hide chaps of a shotgun style with fringe down the sides, striped vest that hung open in the breeze, and a blue cotton shirt. Drawing the bead upward on the thongs of his hat, he anchored the moderate crown firmly on his head.

“I'll bring her back with me,” he promised while putting a double half hitch in his rope, securing the end to his saddle horn.

Rather than approach the herd quietly, Carrigan bore down on them full speed. His strong arm raised, he shook out the rawhide rope. He made a whooping noise and whistled. This put the herd in disarray. They churned the earth with their hooves and took off running at a stiff-legged pace. Riding close as they charged, he kept right on top of Columbiana, calling on Boomerang for all he had.

Faster than Helena could see, Carrigan had the rope around the mare's neck right behind her ears where she would choke quickly and wouldn't pull as much as if he'd caught her low on the throat.

Obsi began to bark excitedly, but didn't defy his master's order.

Columbiana began pulling and kicking in a little circle, trying to get loose from the rope. But the more she pulled, the more she choked. Helena put her hand to her throat, feeling sympathy for the struggling mare.

Carrigan jumped off his horse, dug his spurs into the ground, and held the rope tight while the horse fought him. With his free hand, he reached for the hackamore he'd slip-tied to his saddle.

Pretty soon Columbiana lost all the air she had and fell. He yelled at Boomerang to give him slack, then rushed up to the mare's head and loosened the rope so
she could get air. Before she attempted to regain her feet, he slipped the hackamore on her and fastened the throat latch. Then swiftly he took the lead rope on the hackamore and hurried back to Boomerang, where he untied the lariat from the horn.

Columbiana caught her breath and came up pawing, those soft ears of hers thrown all the way back to California. Carrigan swung into his saddle as she tried to run. He let Boomerang go a distance with her for a few lengths, then he turned her around in the direction where Helena waited.

Obsi wiggled, his tail swishing back and forth. He gave a few frantic barks, then rose to all fours as Carrigan progressed with a triumphant grin on his face.

“One down. Eleven and a half left to go,” he said, cocksure of himself as he passed her by with a mock salute that had more brass to it than a roomful of high-ranking military officers.

10

J
umping into the lake's freezing water, Carrigan let out a chilled howl. Wearing only duck pants, he disappeared under the blue depths. Ripples ringed the disrupted surface left in his wake. Helena sat on a nearby rock and observed him, thinking he was an idiot to subject himself to such an icy bath. But he'd said he couldn't stand the grit and sweat on his skin, and no inconvenient temperature was going to stop him from getting wet. She would have liked to jump in, too, but wasn't about to strip to her underclothes. As soon as he came out, she planned on freshening up at the water's edge.

Carrigan's head broke the surface. He shook the water from the ends of his long hair with a yell. “It is
cold
in here!” He walked toward her, the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest revealed to her with each step he took. “Throw me the soap.”

Helena got off the boulder and found the small bar next to the heap of his discarded clothing. She tossed the cake to him, and he caught it in his left fist.

While he worked the soap into a lather he spread
across his skin, she resumed her spot on the rock. Hugging her knees to her breasts, she crossed her legs at the ankles of her scuffed shoes. As Carrigan washed his hair, she noted he still favored his right arm. He didn't lift it as high as his left. Over the distance between them, she couldn't assess his injury. She was sure he'd healed on the outside, but it would take weeks for his muscles to mend and return to their original strength. Though him admitting to such was unlikely.

Helena felt out of place and intrusive by keeping an eye on him as he went through his ablutions. But there was nothing for her to do. Carrigan had made it plain that he was cooking supper again, and the mouthwatering aroma of bacon-seasoned pinto beans wafted to her nose. He'd put a lidded skillet over the banked gray ashes of the campfire. As the mixture began to simmer, her hunger rose. She'd never expected a man to prepare her a meal, much less her husband.

Resting her chin on her knees, Helena wondered if there was anything Carrigan couldn't do. He'd proved himself skillful at many things in the brief time she'd known him. If their marriage hadn't been founded on conditional terms, she might have allowed herself to feel more than appreciation for him and consider what other attributes he may have that she'd find to her liking. But there was no purpose served in romanticizing their relationship. It wasn't realistic.