Crossings (32 page)

Helena mulled over Jake's words.

“I'm no philosopher, and you can tell me to go to hell and mind my own business if you want.” He took off his hat, reshaped the brim with his fingers, then fit the crown over his head. “I just came in here to tell you Eliazer and I made peace.”

“I was meaning to talk with him, but I've been so busy.”

“No need to. I can take care of my own battles.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I just told him the truth. And swore a lot when I did. That's a man thing you wouldn't have been able to convey. Real indignation comes from four-letter words, and I said enough to convince him I'm not to blame.”

Helena didn't know what to say. At length she said, “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Think about your sister instead.”

Nodding, Helena vowed to lessen her restrictions on her sister. Starting with her clothing. No more child-length dresses, frilly aprons, and girlish shoes. From now on, Emilie would dress as a young woman. There were several nice bolts of blue gingham and small-patterned calico that would make suitable skirts. White poplin and cotton could be sewn into crisp, fashionable shirtwaists. Hopefully Emilie would see this as a beginning and be less inclined to fuss over the dance.

“I need to speak with Emilie,” Helena announced, leaving the candle equipment behind as she went toward the door. She paused without turning around. “What you said about Emilie . . . it made a lot of sense. Thank you.”

*  *  *

“I told you to stay out of town for a while,” Bayard scoffed from the throne of his not-in-session courtroom. “I have no use for you right now.”

The judge needed to think, therefore was sitting in his best thinking chair with its honeyed oak frame and worn burgundy velvet seat. It served as his throne of authority in lieu of a bench. He'd come to his office to weigh and balance his options like the scales of justice. The unexpected company not only threw Bayard off kilter, the other man's presence made him cautious. He didn't want anyone associating the two of them. The idea of being discovered made him apprehensive. Not that he feared this person who'd sprawled his rail-thin legs out before him when he'd sat down in the front row of empty seats. If anything, the unwanted spectator was offensive.

Bayard figured his visitor considered himself armed to the teeth with the ornate new gun he'd taken to wearing several weeks ago. His old piece had been a Smith & Wesson .36 in pitifully poor shape, that carried a bullet like a pea. Unless his aim was exact, it took a whole pod of them to make it worth shooting the gun. But the ill-kept revolver was gone, though not the bowie knife. Its handle projected from the top of his low-heeled boot. The cocksure tilt to his hip when he was standing said he was always itching for a fight. But he was so blatantly obscene about it, nobody would accommodate him who wasn't gone with liquor.

Observing him once in the Metropolitan Saloon, Bayard had noted the hayseed would try any method to ensnare unsuspecting gamblers into making insolent remarks toward him. But there was hardly ever a taker. His face would redden now and then like the color of plums when he fancied he was on the scent of a good fisticuff. But inevitably his pigeon would elude his carefully laid plans of a bloodied nose and worse. Then he would show a disappointment almost pathetic.

“I came to town to see what all the ruckus was with that fire yesterday. Saw the smoke way out on the ranch,” the man remarked while crossing his legs at the knees. The star-spangled clatter of spurs sounded with his movement.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you started the fire just for the fun of it.”

“I'm offended by that,” he bristled, making a show out of being indignant. Breaking off a piece of chaw, he stuck it between his lips and spoke around the wad. “So what the hell happened?”

“The Paiutes started the blaze.”

“Injuns.” His blond brows pointed with interest. “Anyone going to fight 'em?”

“Brown at the Indian Affairs Bureau said he's calling in the military from Carson City.”

Despite the man's tough gaze, he had a lot of bumpkin in him, which was evident in his whine. “I don't like military men.”

“I could care less about the militia,” Bayard snapped, feeling his patience running down faster than a cheap watch. “I govern Genoa, and the United States Army has no authority over me.”

“They do if you interfere with them.”

“I don't need your one-horse interpretation. You have no knowledge of law's writs, so quit imposing your opinion on me.” Bayard sat straighter and hooked his fingers over the cushioned arms of the chair. “I want you out of here before someone comes and sees you.”

“I'm going. To Carson City, as a matter of fact. I got in a fight with one of the hands and lost my job last night. Who the hell needs steers anyway? I'm going to be a professional gambler.” A stream of beetle-brown spittle was aimed at a nearby spittoon and missed by a few inches. “But before I head out, I want to know what's being done about Carrigan. That son of a bitch is mine, and I'm tired of waiting around until you say
I can have a shot at him again. Why isn't he in your custody like you said he'd be?”

Bayard angrily kicked the leather Bible that was beneath his chair. “She wouldn't press charges against him.”

“You said you'd convince her he was a horse thief.”

“She didn't believe me.”

The man laughed. “Some influence you are in her life.”

The blood vessels in Bayard's head pounded his annoyance. He was tempted to rip the man from his seat and shake him until his teeth fell out like corn.

During moments such as this one, Bayard reconsidered his association with the likes of the degenerate sitting before him. But he'd been able to control the man with money, and in doing so, had been assured of his silence. For Bayard had made the threat early on. One slipup now, and he'd see himself swinging from a cottonwood. So far, his confidence had not been broken. And there had been plenty of opportunities for a loose tongue. No, the decision to involve him had been right. He'd done a good job of scaring Helena that day in the store. . . . If only she hadn't gone off in the wrong direction. And true to his word, he'd said he'd take care of Carrigan and had indeed shot him with the intent to kill. . . . If only Helena hadn't mended him.

Helena. She got in the way more than she sat idly by. But that was one of the things he admired about her. She stood up for law and order, wanting to do right by people. This latest being her offer of free mail service to those who lost their businesses to that fire. He'd found this out from Lewis, a man he'd been able to convince that a woman in business for herself was not a woman for Genoa. He'd spoken to Wyatt and Lewis about Helena running the Express right after her father's death. Though he hadn't come out and said it, he'd planted the seeds of doubt in both men, making them think it was in their best interest not to
let a woman gain any kind of control in their town. Her being in charge of the Pony Express could have hurt them, seeing as, if she did well, she could secure her own feed and blacksmith and wouldn't need them. Wyatt and Lewis had bought in to this, and had withheld their services without Bayard ever saying it was his idea. But now Lewis was talking a little more generously about Helena since she'd come to the aid of those burned out, and it bothered Bayard.

Not only that, Helena kept doing right by Carrigan when she should have been denouncing him at every turn. But Bayard wouldn't give up. He loved Helena Gray. Plain and simple. He wanted her as his wife. His career demanded he have her. Thoughts of politics were ever in his plans, and he wasn't going to give up his want of the governorship. It made no difference how Helena came to him. Just so long as she did. But the prospect of having her after Carrigan left the taste of bile in his mouth.

“What are we going to do now?” The drawling voice intruded on Bayard's thoughts.

“I'm working on it.” In fact, he'd found out more things about Carrigan he could use as ammunition without a gun. His inquiries into his past had turned up some interesting information. The Lord had been on his side when he'd done that favor for a judge up near the Yellowstone River. Bayard had hit pay dirt nearly his first letter out. He'd sent a dozen letters to different jurisdictions and had gotten one hell of a reply. All he had to do now was bank on Carrigan having told Helena what Bayard had found out. He would play them off of each other like two pawns, stand back, and watch them tear each other apart.

“I say you just let me shoot him,” came the whine across from Bayard.

Bayard glared. “Once was enough. Twice, there would be inquiries. He's been in town long enough that a murder isn't as easily swept under the rug as I'd like. I'm still getting questions about August Gray's
killing. And I don't need that dredged up. Especially not with the likelihood of Carrigan suspecting you in his shooting at the cabin. I cannot afford any connections between the two incidents. Do I make myself clear? I think moving on for a while is a good idea.”

The man shrugged. “If I'm going to be a professional gambler, I need a stake to start me out.”

Bayard sighed heavily while reaching into his coat for his billfold. “Hanrahan, you are a pain in my ass.”

Seaton's smile was crooked. “But without me doing your dirty work, Judge, those clean white hands of yours would be as black as the bottom of the outhouse.”

*  *  *

Helena sat outside making butter in a coopered churn. Sunlight caught the edge of her muslin skirt where the hem spilled from the shade of the smokehouse. The spot was a quiet one, a place to reflect and be outdoors while tending to an indoors task. Up and down, the dasher made the cream inside slosh, telling her she wasn't even close to thickening the liquid yet. The yard was peaceful, the hens and roosters clucking and scratching at the earth that had dried from the rain. Her thoughts drifted to Jake. Since their return, they'd resumed their prior sleeping arrangements. There were too many factors involved to switch rooms now. For one, Emilie's was directly across from hers. And for two, Helena was too cautious about her feelings for Jake to sleep with him for an entire night. Opening herself up to him while they'd been away had been difficult. If she allowed him into her bedroom here, she'd lose any ground she'd covered in keeping their arrangement cut-and-dried. But that certainly didn't prevent her from wanting to be with him again. . . .

Right now Jake was in the stables with Eliazer constructing new feed boxes to replace the ones the horses had gnawed down, and the temptation to walk
away from the butter just so she could take a glimpse of him was a constant pull.

“Helena.”

At the sound of her name, Helena turned and faced Bayard Kimball. He stood close with a beaver hat in hand and impeccable in a fine eastern suit. His hair was smoothed back and meticulously combed. Gray eyes gazed at her with remorse.

“Judge Kimball.” She never missed a beat on her plunging, nor did she address him by the familiar name he was so insistent she call him.

“If you've a moment,” he said in a humble tone, “I've come to make my sincere apologies and beg you to forgive my lack of manners the other day at the town meeting.”

Helena stared across the stockyard at the garden where the seedlings were thickening in a verdant green carpet. She said nothing. What could she offer him? He'd wanted to hurt her, and he'd succeeded.

“I was totally out of line,” Bayard went on. “It was inappropriate and unnecessary for me to make remarks about your husband when you clearly had come to a decision about his guilt or innocence. I didn't mean to offend you in any way, and I would beseech you to give me the opportunity to remain your friend. We were that once before, and I'm hoping that this matter hasn't killed any admiration, which I'd hoped was mutual.” Her continued silence caused him to add, “Please say something before I make a bigger idiot out of myself.”

Swallowing, Helena sighed before directly staring Bayard in the eyes. “You purposefully wanted to make my husband look like a criminal in front of the town. I was deeply hurt by that.”

Bayard took a step closer. She could smell the bay rum on his person, a scent that was prominent yet inoffensive. “I will admit, I wanted him to appear guilty beyond a doubt in the town's estimation so you
would see him as a . . . as less than deserving of you. But I can see I was wrong. You don't think he is capable of robbery, and I have to accept that.”

“And you also have to accept that the person you thought you saw that night was not my husband, but some other man who you mistakenly identified as Jake.”

“I will concede that you are right.” Bayard twirled his hat in his lean fingers. “I've already confessed to being clouded with liquor. I must have erred in my fingering a culprit.”

“Yes, you did.”

The muscles on Bayard's neck visibly strained. “Would you like me to offer my direct apologies to your husband?”

Helena felt a moment's sympathy for Bayard. He wasn't a man who easily admitted he was wrong. In his courtroom he was always right, and no one else could question him otherwise. For him to offer he'd tell Jake in person that he'd falsely accused him took a lot. Helena saw no reason to draw out the matter further. “That won't be necessary.”

“I appreciate that.” The judge stepped closer, his face looking as relieved as if he'd just been given a stay of execution. She didn't want to persecute him. That had never been her intent. She'd just been very disappointed in his behavior. “Butter-making . . . are we?”

“Yes.” Helena kept on with her rhythmic churning, her arms getting tired.

“Mind if I try?”

She gave Bayard a sidelong glance. “Have you ever churned butter before?”