Crossings (3 page)

Gazing skyward at the bright flyspecks of stars blanketing the night, he listened to the forest swallow Helena Gray's retreat. Never more than now had he felt so isolated. He hadn't gone in search of seclusion. It had crept up on him as if it were gangrene, eating away at what little tolerance for mankind he had left
in his body. Disillusionment with civilization had driven him from populated areas, and he swore he would never go back.

*  *  *

Helena swiftly left the darkness behind, the soft yellow light spilling from Genoa's windows, beacons to guide her home. What could she have been thinking by asking a man like Carrigan to marry her? Had desperation forced her to take irrational measures?

But Carrigan had seemed like such a logical choice. His reputation as a hardened loner who'd closed himself off from mankind because he had a past to hide had been what lured her to him. Like maple leaves in the fall, her past was scarlet, too. They could have formed a common ground and each benefited from a union based on mutual gain. Though Carrigan hadn't seen things that way. He hadn't wanted anything from her.

Perhaps she had been too blunt with her offer. Perhaps she shouldn't have undermined his integrity. She'd made a cold and beseeching proposal to a stranger and had been put in her place. His rejection hurt. Especially when there were others who would leap at the chance to be her husband. But the others would also learn the painful truth about her should she accept one of them. Her mother had taken this truth to the grave, and now Helena's secret was just between her and God. She lived with the weight of her conscience every day.

Helena made her way across Fifth Street, the soggy ground oozing around her shoes. There were few boardwalks to use, the short planks broken by alleys and lots. The streets were not particularly level, as the town was snuggled against the Sierra foothills. Towering pines fanned behind Genoa Street, while Nixon Street cut a direct course through spreading sage as far as the eye could see. Buildings were mostly constructed from native trees, but a few had been made of sun-dried bricks. The mud-colored adobes
were a far cry from the neat clapboard edifices of New Providence, Pennsylvania. But Helena found a rugged beauty in the western craftsmanship that had been lacking in the polished carpentry of her eastern home.

“Miss Gray.” The masculine voice that called her name was familiar.

Judge Bayard Kimball stood in the illuminated doorway of the courthouse, as always, impeccably dressed in a high-priced suit. His hair was the color of coal without a sprinkling of ashes to indicate his age of forty-six. Thick, prominent brows arched over gray eyes that were astute and bordered on being limned with distrust, given he was a public officer authorized to pass critical judgment. He never boasted of his power, but his authority was evident in the way he held himself. He bore the responsibility of his elected office with stiff dignity and a flask of gin in his pocket. Sometimes he would form an opinion even before the first witness was heard, for he would declare nothing need be said about the case because his mind was already made up.

“Good evening, Judge Kimball.”

“I wish you would call me Bayard,” he said in a smooth but insistent voice.

Helena didn't feel comfortable addressing him by his given name. He'd requested she do so on several occasions, and she suspected he would continue to press the issue until she acquiesced.

“Are you all right?” His question was filled with genuine concern.

Feeling battered from her encounter with Carrigan, she couldn't answer. She kept her fragile shawl over her sloped shoulders, the crocheted armor inadequate protection against the night air.

“It's too cold for you to be out without a cloak.” Bayard slid his arms from his resplendent blue coat and draped its warmth across her back. “Let me walk you home.”

She took solace in his presence as he led her toward Main Street. She shouldn't have relied on him, but he had always been there for her family, and giving herself up to his care was effortless.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

Even though she trusted Bayard, she couldn't confide her whereabouts. The whole plan about seeing Carrigan seemed so foolish now that she didn't want to disclose what she'd done. “I've been walking,” she half lied. “I needed to think.”

His lengthy silence caused her to glance at his profile and see his frown in the dimness. “I'm a judge and I don't have the means or manpower backing me to catch outlaws. Genoa is run on a vigilante system in which I give rulings in accordance with the laws designated for this provisional territory. You know that if the criminal who killed your father is apprehended, I'll sentence him to hang.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It wounds me that you won't make things simpler for you and your sister, Helena.” He caressed her name when he spoke it, leaving propriety behind and becoming more informal with her. “I've given you my permission to keep operating the station if you were my wife. Your grievous circumstances would change under my protection. I could make you happy.”

They came to the front of the general store, where a lantern burned in the window behind a drawn canvas shade. Helena didn't have the strength to sidestep his proposal with weak excuses. “I have to go in,” she said quickly. “They're waiting supper for me.” She handed Bayard his coat. “Thank you for walking me home. Bayard,” she added as a small token to show him that she did appreciate his consideration. Then she slipped inside before he could say anything further.

Pressing her back against the closed door, she didn't doubt Bayard would make a good husband. With his political ambitions, he could very well hold a
high-ranking seat in the government. But were she to become his wife, she couldn't fulfill the solemn promise of her marriage vows. Pledging herself to Bayard would be a lie.

At least with Carrigan, they'd both know where they stood before the rings were on their fingers. She wouldn't be deluding herself into thinking there could ever be anything more than an impersonal transaction. Because that was what she was destined for should she ever marry.

2

G
ray's general store sold everything from whiskey to soothe the soul, to Bibles to enlarge the spirit. The interior of the rough-hewn structure was a world of muted sounds and odd mingled odors. Coffee beans with their rich aroma blended into the leather smell of boots, saddles, and belts. The lingering woodsy fragrance of Helena's summer herbs distinguished the area behind the grocery counter. In the fall, she'd tied the bundles with string and made bouquets, which she hung upside down from the low-sloped rafters.

Across from the bins of flour, sugar, rice, and salt, there were bolts of fabric. The musty-sweet tang of dyes woven into cloth added to the mixture of self-contained scents. Spring snowflakes had been drifting from the sky on and off for the past two days, and the moisture made the chinked logs swell and give off a damp odor. The puncheon floor was swept twice daily, but no amount of swishing with the stiff broom bristles could get rid of the mud.

Helena walked between the crowded aisle dividing the two counters, which faced one another. Her skirt
snagged on a barrel of nails, and she gently pulled the calico free so she wouldn't tear the thin material. Continuing, she went to the rear of the store where a mounted elk head on the wall kept watch over the black potbellied stove. As she bent down, the nights of not getting enough sleep battled to rob the strength in her knees. She felt sore and tired all over from tossing and turning in her bed. There was no option she hadn't considered—yet neither was there a solution she could live with. It would be easy to accept any proposal if she wanted to be subdued by men who thought they knew what was best for her and Emilie. But she wasn't willing to wed herself to just any man.

If only Carrigan . . . No. She wasn't going to think about him. He'd given her his answer and she had to accept it.

Grabbing a piece of wood from the fuel box, Helena added the splintered log to the fire embers. Fresh sparks shot up the pipe as the piney sap burned.

“I'm going to the butcher shop now,” Emilie said as she passed through the faded curtains that kept the living area apart from the store. While she walked, she put on her worsted gloves with concise movements that reminded Helena of their mother.

At sixteen, Emilie was developing a figure that was hard to conceal in her girlish shirtwaist and gray pinafore. The hem of her skirt fell six inches below her stocking-clad knees, and though it had been Helena's intention to keep her sister attired in a fashion less mature than her years, the shorter skirt only served to reveal the shape of Emilie's long legs. She wore her yellow-blond hair in two braids that fell to her shoulder blades, but there was no denying the feminine wisps of curls that snuck out to frame her petite face and make her appear more womanly.

Helena straightened and moved around the sacks of potatoes leaning against the counter. She was terrified of Emilie growing up and making the same mistake she had when she was her sister's age. Emilie's desire
to wear more mature dresses was a constant source of argument between the two of them. But today, thankfully, Emilie didn't start anything.

Gathering a cigar box from underneath the counter, Helena set it next to the scale. Gone was the shining tin cash box they had once had, and inside it, the daguerreotype of the four of them—Father, Mother, Helena, and Emilie—standing in front of their white house in New Providence a week before they'd moved. Also gone was the half dime Father had been given for the first sale at the store. As a memento, he'd scratched their mother's initials into it, just below Lady Liberty's flag, and kept both the picture and the coin in the pretty cash box. But everything was lost now. Taken by the robber who'd murdered her father. The shock of his death still left a pang in Helena's heart and a void in her life that was almost too much to bear at times.

Helena lifted the decorative El Cid lid; the remnant smell of tobacco leaves mingled with the pungency of petty money inside. Helena counted out several silver coins. “Don't buy a whole quarter. Just a shoulder, and a tail for soup if Mr. Zeckendorf has it.”

Emilie nodded and took the money. “Ignacia said she has enough carrots.” The coins clinked together as she dropped them in her worn velvet reticule. Glancing at Helena, Emilie smiled weakly. “You've got to try and sleep, you know. I loved Father, too, but you can't keep worrying about what's going to happen to us. We'll still have the store, even if we don't have the station.”

“It would be easy to give up, but I won't let Father's dream die.” Helena put the money box away and absently fingered a crock of vinegar. “You know how much he wanted to be a part of the Pony Express. It's history in the making, he said. That's why he fought so hard to secure the station for us.”

“I understand that, Lena, but he's not here anymore to help.”

“That's why we have to help ourselves.”

“By marrying a man like Carrigan?” Emilie fitted the hood of her heavy cloak over her hair. “I'm glad he turned you down. He frightens me. They say he's killed people. How could you lie in bed at night knowing he was in the house, and at any time could murder you when you sleep?”

Helena sighed. “I'm not sleeping now.”

“Don't make fun of me. It must be true, or no one would say such awful things about him.” Emilie walked toward the door and lifted the latch. A snap of frosty air seeped through the crack as she turned to face Helena. “Can you honestly tell me you aren't just a little relieved he said no?”

Helena fought the chill with a shiver. “Perhaps I am . . . just a little. But when I think of who else there is to turn to, I'm sorry he didn't say yes.”

“There's always Judge Kimball. He's been nothing short of a gentleman from the day we met him. And Father liked him, too.” Emilie tucked her hands in the folds of her cloak. “He's asked you twice, Lena, and may not propose again. If you think that marriage is the only answer, you could do worse. Far worse.” Fussing with the edges of her wrap, she hid her attire. “I won't be back straightaway. I'm going to visit Mrs. Osterman and her new baby.”