Crossings (36 page)

When he'd first seen Helena, he'd been rendered speechless. He'd never seen her all done up before. Her hair was tamed into ringlets so perfect, he wondered if they'd feel as silky as they looked. The blush on her cheeks had been heightened with her throaty greeting upon finding him and Thomas at the store's door. When he'd stood back and taken in the entire picture she'd made framed in the doorway, he'd thought he was looking at a meticulous painting of a woman who was his wife, yet not the woman he'd married. He'd always known Helena was a beautiful
woman, but seeing her this way was like seeing her for the first time.

The dress she wore was like none he'd ever seen. Either on her, or ready-made from the store. He didn't even think she carried a fine white material such as what she was wearing. It wasn't the exquisite fabric that caught his eyes as much as the color. She hadn't hidden herself in dark clothing. She was in a light style that showed off her figure to the fullest. The neckline fell in a modest curve, and a type of single ruffle hugged the swells of her breasts. Five black velvet bows ran down the middle of the bodice and met at a waist that was slender enough for his fingers to span and still meet at the tips. A belt of the same black velvet encircled the narrowness of her midriff, while the skirt fanned out in a wide bell of cloth that whispered seductively with each step she took. Though he hadn't been able to hear that scratch of lace from her underclothes as soon as they'd entered the noisy hall. Carrigan had a mind to take Helena outside so he could hear the provocative sound once again, and give her a kiss to hold him through the evening.

They'd been meeting, hungering, taking, enjoying each other, and he found when he wasn't near her, he was forever thinking of her.

Emilie and Thomas went off to the candy table to set down the sugar snap tray, Eliazer taking Helena's molasses brittle for her while Ignacia followed the younger couple. Alone, yet not alone, Carrigan leaned toward his wife and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “I'd like you to introduce me to a woman I've never met before.”

Helena's eyes caught his. There was a streak of curiosity and even an envious flint in the blueness. He knew he hadn't said a word about her appearance and figured she was agonizing over his silence. But the right words hadn't hit him until now.

“Who is she?” she asked in a tight voice, her puffy-sleeved arm still linked through his from the walk over.

With a smile that worked its way up the right side of his mouth, he said, “You.”

“Me?”

“I've never seen you before, have I?”

“Of course you have.”

“I don't think so. What's your name?”

A crease caught her forehead. “Helena. You know that.”

“Helena what?”

“Helena Carrigan.”

His mouth came very close to her fragrant skin, yet his lips didn't take what he sought. “You're my wife. I thought there was something familiar about you. But my wife has never looked as you do now.”

“And that is?”

“Edible.”

Her soft laughter curled around him, and he added, “You'll always be my wife, Lena, because you have my name. You've taken it and made it worth something.”

A seriousness came over her. She touched his cheek with her gloved hand and gave him a smile that lovingly fell over him. “I always knew it was.”

The musicians settled into their chairs on a raised platform, and tried to outdo each other once they struck up a polka. As couples formed and floated to the dance floor, they performed the lively dance to perfection. Skirts swirled and men's coattails swelled as the strains of the melody beckoned. Carrigan hadn't danced since his youth and wasn't sure how to move through a spirited polka anymore, as this seemed too complicated. A waltz, he could conquer, and would, as soon as one was played.

When he looked at Helena, she didn't appear upset that he hadn't asked her to dance right away. “I don't suppose you'd like to dance this one?”

“Do you know how to polka?”

“I did. Once. But I've forgotten.”

She smiled. “Thank heaven you said that. I'm not certain I remember it exactly either. I didn't want to embarrass you.”

Carrigan frowned. “You could never do that.” Putting his hand on the small of her back, he said, “Let's watch for Emilie and wait for a waltz. Can you dance a waltz?”

“That's about all. I'm rusty with the rest. Shall we wait until they play one?”

“Save it especially for me.”

They stood off to the side as the colorful couples spun by. When a flash of blue whirled in front of them, Helena rested her hand on Carrigan's forearm. “There she is. I'm so glad Eliazer practiced with her. She's dancing, Jake. Really dancing. And isn't she pretty?”

Carrigan noted the radiance on the younger girl's cheeks, the abandon in her merry smile. That Helena had relented and let Emilie attend with Thomas only strengthened his love for his wife. She was making sacrifices and changes. Whereas he was not the same man who'd walked down that mountain to be wed for a price, neither was she the same woman who'd asked for a protector. She stood on her own now, just as he was reconsidering his options for the future.

The harmonious and intoxicating tunes captivated the audience as the dancing continued. Carrigan ignored the presence of the military men who walked the room with domineering strides. Tonight wasn't for lingering on a dead past, so he put the troopers from his mind. Instead, he focused on the enchanting lady beside him, and Emilie and Thomas, who made an ideal pair moving in graceful sync.

A while later when a quadrille was complete, Carrigan said, “I'm going outside for a smoke. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No. I'm fine,” Helena replied as Emilie and Thomas made their way toward them. Emilie was breathless and engaged Helena in a light conversation while Thomas departed for the refreshment stand. Carrigan took his leave since smoking wasn't permitted in the hall.

Once outside, he selected a tree-lined spot away from the other men who were speaking in groups with clouds of smoke above their heads. Rolling a cigarette, Carrigan lit the end. As he fanned the match out, he listened to the drone of crickets while enjoying the calming effects of tobacco. The tightly knit room seemed to amplify voices and raucous laughter to the point of irritation for Carrigan. He'd need to get a jolt of the quiet night before returning to endure several more hours of heady perfumes, the abundant smell of cedar oozing from suits that had been brought out of trunks, and hearty laughter that was more like guffaws.

Carrigan wasn't alone long when the crunch of bootheels came to him. Turning his attention in the direction of the visitor, he scowled.

A yellowlegs—a captain, from the insignia on his spotless blue coat—approached. The man was in his middle years, tall and well ironed like his clothing, with the cavalry emblem of crossed sabers stating his military affiliation on his hat, and a gleaming field sword at his hip.

“Good evening, sir,” the captain greeted with an extension of his arm. “You are Mr. Carrigan?”

Carrigan made no reply, nor did he acknowledge the man's attempt at a handshake. Drawing on his cigarette, he glared at the captain, wishing to hell he'd never been found by the man.

“You are Mr. Carrigan, are you not?” The inquiry was repeated, this time with a note of reservation in his tone as he lowered his arm. “I was told you were Mr. Jake Carrigan of the Pony Express.”

“What of it?”

“Then you are the man I'm looking for.”

“Nobody's looking for me.”

“I beg to differ with you. My name is Captain Eli Garrett. It's been said you've supplied the Express with swift mustangs. We're going to need fresh horses. Good horses that are up to the same speed as the Paiutes if we want to win this fight. The army would like to commission you to round up fifty head and—”

“Not interested.”

A shadow of arrogance crossed the man's honed features. “We'd pay a substantial amount.”

“I don't give a shit how much. I'm not wrangling horses for any cavalry.”

Captain Garrett grew indignant, straightening his brass-clad shoulders to a stiff degree and putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You're making a grave mistake by not hearing me out.”

Carrigan could face off with a weapon just as easily and curled his fingers around the butt of his Walker. “I've heard enough.”

“I don't think you realize that it's your civic duty to serve your country by contributing—”

“I did my time. I fought in the Mexican War.”

“That was years ago, and you are to be commended for your service. But now there's a new war and there are men who are risking their lives to save the women and children of this community. You do have a wife of your own to consider.”

Carrigan came close to grabbing the man by his snappy collar. “You tell that to the men who—” The veins on his neck were pulsating with hot blood as his anger thrummed through his body.
Tell that to the men who raped Jenny.
“Tell your superiors there's no law that says I have to do anything for the U.S. Army.”

Pitching the butt of his cigarette into the street, Carrigan left without any further comment. Feeling the captain's gaze burning a hole through his back,
Carrigan shrugged it off as he rounded the corner of the assembly hall and entered the building. The military man could kiss his bare backside. He wasn't obliged to provide a service to any troopers. His refusal had been founded on a matter of principle. It would be like aiding and abetting the enemy. He wouldn't. Not for anything. So he put the incident out of his mind as he sought Helena.

A square-dance caller on the platform was ripping out singsong directions for the partners. The climate in the room had grown as humid as a hothouse, and many collars were clinging to necks like wet rags. Some of the women were truly fine-looking in their latest gowns of rustic fashion, but none more so than his wife. She stood with a half dozen ladies in a tight circle, nodding her head and contributing to a conversation of which he couldn't hear the topic. That Helena had come out of her shell to address these women and make light conversation with them had him thinking she wasn't as closed off by women as she pretended. There was still that side in her, the part that wanted to share ideals and recipes. He didn't take it as a weakness; he thought the need to be included added new dimension to an already well-rounded personality.

Rather than intrude, he stood a ways back and folded his arms across his chest. Through a separation in the crowd, he saw Captain Garrett glaring at him. Carrigan moved his gaze. Was the son of a bitch going to sniff after him like a hound dog?

Just minutes after he'd put his cigarette out, Carrigan felt the need for another. Jumping to quick conclusions had never been one of his better traits. He'd made a fair number of rash decisions and had looked back on them with question. If pride hadn't gotten in the way, he might have asked the captain just how much money was involved. Too late, Carrigan realized he really needed the cash in a bad
way. But to get it from the men who'd attacked Jenny—that was nothing short of being two-faced.

Jesus . . . payment for fifty head would be anywhere between five hundred and a thousand dollars, depending on the quality of the horses. If he caught a few prime stallions, he could breed them with quality mares and . . . Hell, what was he thinking?

He was thinking of Helena.

Capturing and raising horses for the army would be a decent income. A cash resource he couldn't afford to refuse if he was to support his wife. Carrigan felt torn in half.

“Gents to the right! Ladies to the left! Promenade!” the caller twanged through the accompaniment of a banjo player and fiddler, who added much liveliness to the dance by vying to outdo each other with tricky bars. Carrigan hoped the next dance would be a waltz. He was aching to hold Helena in his arms and let the music flow while they embraced.

“Carrigan.”

The greeting contained a strong suggestion of reproach that he could easily identify. As he turned, he found he was in the company of Judge Bayard Kimball. The man offended him, not only because he wore a supreme righteousness on his expression, but because he had ties to Helena that went further back than his own.

“Kimball.”

“You know who I am.”

“I know.”

“Ah, yes . . . from the fire.”

“I didn't know your name then. I do now.”

The man was attired in flawless black with gleaming diamond studs through the buttonholes of his silk shirt. A gem stickpin glinted from his tie, which disappeared into a bloodred vest with gold threads. The contrast of bold color against his subdued suit was startling, and in excellent taste. But Carrigan didn't give a rat's behind about the judge's fashion. In
fact, he downright wanted to shoot the man for making a false accusation about him. Bayard Kimball saw him as a petty horse thief. And regardless that Carrigan had married the woman the judge had had his eyes on, that didn't necessitate trumping up charges to get revenge. Carrigan didn't like Kimball. And it was a good thing he didn't have to.

“You got something to say to me?” Carrigan asked in a tone cool enough to ice a branding iron.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Bayard's gray eyes were forged with a purpose other than a general inquiry.

“I was.”

The judge's gaze roamed toward Helena, and Carrigan didn't miss the open appreciation with which he studied her. “Your wife is looking quite becoming tonight. I'm surprised you got her to attend. I've tried to for some time, but she wouldn't accept my invitation. How did you convince her?”

“She's got her own mind. I don't have to convince her of anything.”

“Yes, Helena is a very independent woman.”