Crossings (22 page)

In regard to her horses . . . she'd come to the conclusion she had to follow her honest convictions. Belief was a matter of choice. And at this point, she chose not to believe Bayard's account of what happened. He had freely confessed to being under the influence of liquor, and drunkenness wasn't a supporter of accuracy. If Bayard had mistakenly identified Carrigan, then the question was left open: Who had let her horses out?

Mr. Lewis and Mr. Wyatt hadn't taken being put in
their places too kindly. Either one of them could have done it. But physically, neither was even close to resembling Carrigan. She supposed one or the other could have hired someone for the dirty dealing. Perhaps Seaton Hanrahan. But whatever had transpired, Helena couldn't come up with a pat suspect.

The caw of a jay made Helena glance over her shoulder. Obsi paid it no mind. The dog was stretched out on Carrigan's bedroll sunning himself in a late afternoon snooze. A bit to the east, Columbiana had been tied to one of the spruce trees in front of the camp where they could keep an eye on her. She had access to the sinkhole, and Carrigan had given her a ration of oats. Earlier, Helena had reacquainted herself with the brooding mustang, who, albeit very slightly, seemed happy to see her.

Carrigan ducked beneath the water briefly to rinse the soap from his hair and body, then he came up. As he exited the lake, tiny droplets glistened on his upper body. His nipples had puckered, and she could see he was fighting not to click his teeth together. The buttons on his trousers weren't doing their job at keeping the waistline taut without a belt. Wet cotton sagged at his navel where a thin line of dark hair trailed downward. The sensual image of what his pants cradled came to her mind. She had told herself gazing at him in a state of undress when she'd taken care of his wound was nothing to lose her head over, but she hadn't forgotten. Carrigan had the kind of build a woman could never disregard.

“Grab me one of my blankets.”

Helena went quickly to get one, but seeing as Obsi was dead to the world and in no mood to budge, she had to use a blanket of her own. As she handed it to Carrigan, their knuckles met in a light touch. The blameless contact set off a responsive shiver through her. She was dismayed by the currents and hastily averted her eyes from his chest. Looking down, she stared at the water that ran off the hems of his
trousers. His bare feet were coated with coarse, brown sand.

When she raised her gaze, their eyes met and an inexplicable sense of intimacy came over Helena. She became aware of him in ways that were impractical. He shouldn't have made her want to pin hopes on the future. Carrigan would never love her, nor could she ever allow herself to love him. She had to distance herself from futile thoughts such as affectionate husbands and dedicated wives.

For the lack of anything better to say, she remarked politely, “Your supper dish smells good.” Though suddenly hunger wasn't the cause of her ribs pressing down on her stomach.

Taking an unsteady breath, she retreated like a coward for the shore and kneeled on an overhang of rock that tumbled into the water. Her murky reflection greeted her. She looked an awful sight with her hair windblown and flyaway curls framing her face. A dirt smudge left an imprint on the hollow of her cheek, and her lips were pale from dryness. It was
good
she didn't need to impress him, because in her disheveled state, she couldn't impress the dog.

Without looking to see if she was being watched, Helena proceeded to wash her hands and face with the soap Carrigan had left. On a whim, she took her hair down and smoothed some order into it with water on her palms. When she was finished, she walked up the embankment to the campsite. She noted Carrigan had strung a rope between two trees and draped her wet blanket over the line and was standing behind it. In a swift rummage of her saddlebag, she found her brush and ran the bristles through her tangles. With nimble fingers, she fashioned a fat braid and bow-tied the end with a short length of black ribbon.

Moistening her parched lips with some balm, she sat on her bedroll to wait for Carrigan to dress. All she could see was his naked legs from beneath the
blanket's edge. The well-shaped definition of his lightly haired calves was soon taken from her view as first one, then the other, leg slid into butternut-colored fabric.

He came out barefoot and with his gun holster draped over the shoulder of a soft ivory shirt. From the center of the small, fold-over collar, pearly buttons fell to midway down his chest. She vaguely recalled carrying such a ready-made shirt in the general store, but she couldn't remember selling one to him.

Carrigan sat on the lower edge of his pallet, mindful of Obsi's tail. After lighting a cigarette, he kept the end between his lips as he put on a pair of socks, then his boots. It was daunting to watch him dress in such an unhurried manner. She would have frantically been trying to cover her exposed feet. But he didn't seem the least bit bothered that she could see his toes.

Gazing at her through a curl of smoke, he arched his brows. He talked around the cigarette while he said, “You're staring.”

Helena flushed to the roots of her hair. “I didn't mean to.”

“Stare all you want. I don't care.” With splayed fingers, he combed damp hair from his eyes. Then he removed the holster and laid it and the Walker on his pillow within easy reach of his hand. Picking up a long fork, he slid the tines underneath the handle of the skillet lid to lift it. Beans bubbled in the bacon juices. He gave them a stir with a spoon. “Can you wait ten minutes more while I mix some biscuits?”

Helena made an effort to keep her gaze anywhere but on Carrigan when she nodded. To her thorough embarrassment, he laughed at her.

“Does this mean you're going to stop looking at me?”

“No.” Then to prove her point, she stared him in the eyes. Which was the wrong course of action to take. His eyes always undid her. They were too
layered with keen observance. He could probably read what she was thinking about him. Then he'd surely be laughing again when he figured out she was forever preoccupied by thoughts of him.

Thankfully, he broke away to get the flour sack and a box of staples. The slow-burning cigarette still dangled from his mouth when he asked, “Can Columbiana take a command without having a fit?”

His query threw her off, and she immediately pondered his motives. “Thomas has never complained. She's an independent horse, but she's well trained.”

“You ever ridden her?”

“No.”

Carrigan abruptly let the subject go with the pitch of his cigarette butt, but Helena wasn't so easily swayed. “Why do you ask?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes it does. You need me to ride her.”

“I can get the rest of the horses without you riding her.”

“But it would be faster if I did.”

He remained silent, rolling the top of the flour sack down and pouring water directly inside. With his free hand, he began to squeeze the sack. This unusual method pulled at her attention, but she didn't immediately comment on it.

“But it would be faster if I did,” she repeated.

“Yeah.” He concentrated on kneading the lump of flour and water without taking the mass out. “It would be. But I'm not going to set you on a horse you don't know.”

“I know her,” she disputed. “Better than you.”

“Which is precisely why I won't ride her.”

“And which is precisely why I will.”

Carrigan gave her a good going over with his steadfast eyes. Then he dumped some baking powder, salt, and a spoonful of lard into the bag. “You don't even know why I want you to ride her.”

“She's the lead mare and the others are more apt to follow her than they would Traveler,” Helena replied with uncompromising satisfaction. That temporarily out of the way, she had to ask, “What are you doing to that flour?”

“Mixing biscuits.”

“In the sack?”

“It's less messy this way and only uses the amount of flour I need.” He brought the smooth dough out in his palm and showed it to her. “If you get bucked off that mare tomorrow, I'm liable to shoot her.”

“I won't.” Helena felt a smile growing at the corners of her mouth. “And if you get any ideas to shoot her, you'll have to shoot through me. She's fine horseflesh, even though she's capricious.”

Carrigan put the biscuits on and lit another cigarette. He lazed on his side, indolently enjoying his smoke. It occurred to her, he was minus a vice.

“You're not drinking.”

“Having a case of alcohol dementia isn't going to help me round up the horses these next few days.” Lying on his back with his head propped on the arch of his saddle, he took a puff and exhaled the smoke in a slow ribbon. The creases at the edges of his eyes deepened with devilment. “But I did bring the whiskey in case either of us got hurt.” He bent his leg and kicked up his bootheel onto the top of his knee as he turned toward her. “You want a taste?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.”

In the cooling of a red sun making way for evening stars, Helena reserved her speech to appreciate the colors. Real sunsets didn't visit Genoa. The quiet camaraderie between herself and a man was a pleasure long since past for her. Idle talk and yarn spinning around a campfire as a carefree couple was something she'd only experienced once. Sitting this way with Carrigan reminded her of that. But what was missing were the anecdotes and their outlooks on a shared life
ahead. The gently spoken words of admiration, heartfelt laughs of amusement, and the soft touches of reassurance—these were the missing elements in their doomed relationship. In less than six months, their perfunctory involvement would end.

This bothered Helena when it shouldn't have. When she thought of the many things Carrigan had accomplished in so short a time, she couldn't help but think about his additions to her life. Though she would never admit, not even a little bit, she was feeling more for Carrigan than was wise. And these feelings ran a close second to a profound and deep affection for him.

The biscuits were soon ready to eat, and Helena accepted the offered plate of food. Obsi woke to the delicious smells and sat up to beg. Carrigan tossed him a chunk of bacon. The single bite didn't appease Obsi, who turned to Helena with large brown eyes. She held out a portion of her bacon.

“You'll have to take it from me if you want it,” she said, coaxing him with a slight pulse of her hand. Obsi dipped his head low, raised his chin, sniffed, then moved backward a few steps. “Come on. You want it. You know you do.”

“He won't take it from you.” Carrigan used his biscuit to sop the bean juices.

“He'll take it if he wants it bad enough.”

Obsi came forward, his tongue coming out to smack his chops. Ever closer, he was practically drooling when he reached her hand. He whined, bent his neck low, then she felt his teeth very gingerly remove the meat from her fingers.

“I'll be damned.” Carrigan's brows rose as Obsi returned to mooch more bacon from him. “You'll have to wait until I'm through with my tin before you can have a plate to eat off of. Go sit.”

Obediently the dog complied.

Helena's triumphant smile was mixed. Even though she'd set out to conquer the dog's fear of taking food
from anyone but Carrigan, it also meant she was becoming fond of Obsi. She hadn't had a desire to have a dog since she'd lost hers as a child. People outlived animals, and it was a hard thing having to bury a beloved pet once a person was attached to it. From now on, she'd better shy away from the dog. When Carrigan went, Obsi went with him.

From her first bite, Helena realized she had a wolfish hunger after all. The flaky biscuit melted in her mouth, and she helped herself to another later in the meal. As soon as supper was eaten, Obsi fed, the dishes cleaned and put away, Helena lifted the flap of her saddlebag and dug into the side containing a deck of cards. She brought them out and held them for Carrigan's view. “Are you a cardplayer?”

Night had fallen, and with it came a chill. When Helena had covered her shoulders with her cape, Carrigan had stoked the fire. Its flames cast enough brightness to see by, and also put his face in a complimentary light. He sat directly across from her, the fire pit at their respective left and right knees as each sat cross-legged.

“Depends on what game is being played.”

“Seven-up.”

“Sure, I know Old Sledge.”

“Would you care to play it? I thought it might take some of the tedium out of the nights, so I brought the cards.”

Lighting a smoke, he said, “All right.”

“Where did you learn to cook?” Helena asked, while dealing.

“On the range, and by trial and error.”

“I can't imagine you as a cowboy, much less a sheepherder.”

Carrigan drank black coffee from his cup. “Don't know why not.”

“Because you're a solitary man, and driving cattle takes teamwork.”

“I wasn't always a loner.”

“I sense there's a story in that.”

“Many.”

“Would you tell me at least one?”

Carrigan's circumspect expression told her he was weighing the consequences of her request. “If you're specific, I might.”

She had more questions to choose from than she did the six blue-backed playing cards on the blanket in front of her. The foremost: Who were the men he'd killed, and why? But to get him to answer a hard and direct question like that, she'd have to be careful how she phrased her inquiry. For now, she stuck to one that she was fairly certain he would respond to, and that would perhaps tie into the one burning on the forefront of her mind. “What was it that made you leave Red Springs so fast and take the sheepherding job?”

“Not what.”

“Pardon?”

“It wasn't a what. It was a who.” Carrigan didn't handle his cards. Tapping his right forefinger over the tops of them, he clarified, “The who was a woman.”