Crossings (39 page)

Holding his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, he watched it burn in his grasp, then lifted his gaze toward the high-domed cape of blue sky. “You don't need me anymore.”

“Of course I need you!” she exclaimed.

Ignoring her plea, he went on. “You can stand on your own now. No one is going to go up against you.” Jake lifted the cigarette to his mouth and pulled in the smoke until the end burned red. “I think it's time we end this. We've played the charade out.”

Shock and dismay clutched her.

“I want the land. You've given it to me. It's legally mine.” His eyes were cold and unfeeling when he said, “Let's not prolong the inevitable. I always said I'd leave, and you knew that.”

Hurt drew a deep line in her. She'd wanted him to stay. Would have asked him to stay. Then something hit her as sure as if she'd been physically struck. “How do you know this land is legally yours?”

His forehead dented into a scowl. “That's fairly obvious. Your name was in the Kinsey book I signed this morning. Right there in ink, says you transferred this land to me as of yesterday. Don't know why you couldn't have told me instead of that goddamn judge.”

Helena was sick. Bayard had spoken to Jake about the turnover on the parcel? How could he? The only reason she'd told him he could begin proceedings was to give him a show of faith. Demonstrate that she was willing to let bygones be bygones. But Bayard had abused her once again. He'd gone to Jake. And now Jake thought she was trying to get rid of him.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it appear that I wanted you out of the station.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“Jake,” she implored, “you've got to listen to me. I only told Bayard to transfer the deed because—”

“Doesn't matter.” Jake ground his cigarette beneath his boot. “It's over.” He began walking toward his horse.

“It's not over,” she called, chasing after him. “It's not!”

Sharply he turned on her. “It is when I'm singled out off the goddamn street by a man I don't like and am told my wife wanted me to have this land as soon as possible so she could get me the hell out of her life.”

“I never said anything of the kind!” Terror made her weak. “You've got to believe me. I would
never
say such a thing to Bayard.”

“No? But you talked to him about Jenny.”

Helena's breasts rose and fell with her anger. This had nothing to do with Jenny, or the deed, or even Bayard. “Jake Carrigan, you're being totally unreasonable. This is all just an excuse for you. It's a way for you to leave me.”

“I never said I'd stay.”

“But things changed between us, and you know that.” She knew that her admission would sound like a ploy to get him to stay, but she went ahead with it anyway. He had to know before he went off without her. “Jake, I love you.”

He froze, one foot in the stirrup of his saddle. She waited long minutes for him to say something. Anything. Even if he called her a liar, it would be better than his silence. At last, all he offered was, “You better mount up. I can't leave you here alone.”

Helena stared at him. “You're scared. At least admit it to yourself if you won't admit it to me.”

Jake leaned forward and put his elbow on the saddle horn. “I don't know what you're talking
about.” His gaze was unmoving as granite, his mouth a fixed line of fury.

“Well, I'll say it, then. I'm scared, too. I won't deny I wanted you to have the parcel, regardless of what happens in our relationship . . . where you live . . . or don't. I wanted you to feel secure in knowing I would make good on my promise to give you the acreage.” She looked into his eyes, seeing the flecks of gold against green. Seeing the pain and indecision he wouldn't acknowledge. “I want you to come back to the station. Don't say the charade is over.”

“Too late. This is mine.”

Desperate, she lashed out at him with whatever ammunition she had to hold him to her until she could figure out what to do next. “But we had an agreement. You were to stay with me for six months.”

“Things change.”

“They don't. And if you don't stay, I'll consider you a liar.”

Jake merely laughed. A terrible, insincere sound. “I've always told you I was a liar, Lena. That's the one thing I've never lied to you about.”

*  *  *

Carrigan rode behind Helena, watching the line of her shoulders as she stiffly held the reins of the mustang. How he hated hurting her.

She'd said she loved him. The words had cut right through him. She'd admitted her feelings so easily, he'd fought against really believing her. But Helena wouldn't have said it if it weren't true.

She loved him.

He didn't know how to deal with her love. It was more of a burden to him than a blessing. Because in return, he couldn't say the same. Even though it was true. Or almost true. Hell, it was true, but he was too much of a realist to deny that loving her wouldn't be the best thing for her.

Even while he was telling himself he'd be better off without her, he'd been thinking a lot about Captain
Garrett's offer. This not only had him in knots, it had him wondering if he was making the biggest mistake of his life by pushing Helena away.

It wasn't too late to hunt down Captain Garrett and tell him he'd changed his mind. Carrigan had been rationalizing rounding up horses that would, in a sense, be used to kill part of his heritage. There were no shades of gray. It was a war drawn in black and white. Either you fought back, or you were killed. There was no disrespect to his mother's band of people, yet there was no loyalty to any tribe of Indian just because his blood was part Choctaw. He'd been raised a white man, and he had to take their side. If he didn't, people could get hurt. Helena could get hurt. By rounding up horses for the cavalry, he'd be helping her. Them. With the income off the horses, Carrigan could hire an extra man to help at the station while Helena was with him while he began building a house. Their house. He was going to ask her where she wanted the windows, and how many rooms she'd fancy . . . and if she liked porches . . . and porch swings.

Jesus, he couldn't afford to dream such dreams.

She loved him. Carrigan couldn't get the words out of his head. She loved him. And he'd hurt her.

A distant horse nickered, and Carrigan grew alert. Helena sat straighter and looked over her shoulder at him. He waved her back. She lightened the reins and had Maria Jane fall into step next to Boomerang. Carrigan withdrew his Colt and trained the barrel on a dense thicket of poplars. Within a moment, color came into view. Clothing of blue and red, swatches that were familiar to Jake.

Carrigan's first thought had been that the rider was a lone Indian, but the man astride a slow-loping mustang wore trousers and a shirt, with a slouch hat. He was slumped over the saddle horn, his body swaying with the jarring movements of the horse.

“Oh, dear God,” Helena gasped.

Carrigan heard her cry in his ear just as he recognized the rider. The mustang cleared the trees and plodded over a sheet of granite on his way toward Genoa. The rider, in the uniform of the Pony Express, had an arrow sticking out of his back.

It was Thomas McAllister.

*  *  *

They guided the horse across Fifth Street with Thomas's crippled body hunched in the saddle. He was alive, but just barely. His crumpled appearance drew a hasty crowd, and someone ran to the Indian Affairs office to notify the authorities. Since there was no physician, Helena and Jake brought Thomas to the station. As soon as they entered the wide gates, Emilie was dashing out of the store with her fist to her mouth in an effort to stop her screams from coming. But they did, and the sorrowful sounds caused even Obsi to sit back and howl his sadness.

Eliazer arrived to help with the horse, and as soon as Jake had Thomas off the saddle, he hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him toward the rear entrance to the house. Down the hall and up the stairs, the pattern brought an agonizing sense of déjà vu to Helena. She'd made this crossing once before . . . with the man she'd fallen in love with. Then, she hadn't known how she would come to feel about him. But for Emilie, the emotions were already there. Her sister was suffering immensely.

Once Jake reached the top of the stairs, he headed for his room, but Emilie cried out, “Put him in my bedroom.”

Helena would have made a comment, but the tone in Emilie's voice, despite her outward appearance, was calm and insistent. “I'll take care of him. Just tell me what to do.”

She led the way and pulled the coverlet off her bed so Jake could lay Thomas down on his stomach. A wide circle of blood had spread across the back of his shirt, the arrow's feathered end almost unbearable to
view. Its sight was gruesome and merciless, making Helena want to close her eyes. But cowering and falling into tears would not help Thomas. Emilie must have seen the prudence in this as well, for her sobs had ceased, and she was standing over Thomas with determination holding her fair face captive.

“How do we get the arrow out?” She addressed Jake, who had taken the knife from his boot and was slicing down the middle of Thomas's shirt with the blade.

“Carefully.”

Once the shirt was free, Helena had to swallow the saliva gathering in her throat. For some reason, she'd been more equipped to handle Jake's injury than Thomas's. She'd taken charge without blinking, knowing that Jake had no one else to count on to see him through other than her. With Thomas . . . she couldn't explain why she was falling apart. Perhaps because Emilie was being so brave. It gave Helena some leeway to feel her discomfort and fear.

Jake wiped his palms down the sides of his trousers, then gave Emilie a level glance. “If I don't pull it out straight, the tip could break off inside of him. Many men have lived with an arrowhead in their bodies, but it's painful. I'll try and go slowly. It's going to hurt him like hell. If he yells, don't panic. I'm not killing him. I have no choice.”

Emilie nodded, taking one of Thomas's hands into her own and squeezing so tightly, her knuckles whitened. “Do what you have to do to save him.”

Jake grasped the shaft and began to twist his wrist very slightly as he pulled. The slight movement had Thomas screaming out in his unconscious state. Emilie bit her lip so hard, she trembled from the pain.

Helena felt the beginnings of sickness slap her. Wave after wave, until she knew she would be sick unless she left the room. “I'll have Ignacia heat some water.” But that was just an excuse. Surely Ignacia
would have the water hot and ready without being told. But Helena had to escape.

She swiftly went into the hallway, gasping for air as she did and pressing her hands on the walls as she went toward the stairwell. Once there, she sat on the top riser, put her face in her hands, and wept. Of all the things she'd worried Emilie might experience with her first love, they didn't include having to cope with the death of a beloved as Helena had. She'd never thought Emilie would have to live through losing the man she loved to an accident, or an act of war. It hadn't seemed possible for two sisters to have to bear the same thing, but it was happening. She saw herself up in that room, and she couldn't bear it if Emilie had to feel the pain of letting go of Thomas. It wasn't fair.

Helena lifted her chin as Ignacia came up the stairs with a basin, kettle of steaming water, and towels draped over her arm.

“It doesn't seem real,” Ignacia said. “I just did this for Mr. Carrigan. Poor, dear Emilie.”

Wiping her tears from her eyes, Helena forced herself to pull together. Emilie needed her. She couldn't desert her now. So she stood, blotted her face with the hem of her dress, and went into Jake's room to pilfer his whiskey. She came up empty-handed. Of all the times for him to quit.

Running downstairs with the intent of snatching a bottle from the counter, she was faced with a throng of curious well-wishers who'd flooded the store.

“How is young McAllister?” Mr. Mayhew inquired, his face sober with serious regard.

“Mr. Carrigan is doing what he can for him,” Helena replied. “He's removing the arrow.”

Mrs. Doyle, her cheeks apple red, stepped forward. The stiffening in her petticoats crackled as she walked. “We are very concerned about him. Is there anything I can offer?”

“Certainly not your husband's services,” Helena
said, unable to stop herself from the biting comment. Only too late, she realized Mrs. Doyle was being sincere. “I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just that things are very trying right now. If you all wouldn't mind leaving, I think quiet would be the best thing for the household right now. We'll inform you tomorrow how Thomas fared through the night.”

On that note, she shuffled the gathering out the door with a nod of her head that said indeed, she would let them all know about Thomas's condition in the morning. Turning the key in the lock and drawing the shades, she retreated for the upstairs with the whiskey bottle firmly grasped in her hand.

When she reached Emilie's bedroom, Thomas was moaning softly as Emilie cleansed his wound with warm towels. Jake had gotten the arrow out, or what appeared to be the entire arrowhead.

“Were you able to remove it all?” she asked, putting aside the tension between them, and glad Jake was doing the same.

“I got it all out. But the sharp edges really cut him up. He's going to need a good poultice.”

“Eliazer has begun one,” Ignacia supplied, her reed-thin body looking frail and overwrought. “Why does the Lord see fit to keep sending us disasters?”

Helena could not reply, for Thomas wasn't the only disaster to hit the station today. But she wouldn't spend time dwelling on the argument she and Jake had had when Thomas lay with his life in the balance.