Crossings (16 page)

The twine and stakes in Eliazer's hands dropped to the seed box when Helena said, “Come on, Eliazer, looks like we won't be having rabbit stew for supper tomorrow.”

Fifteen minutes later, Carrigan had built up a makeshift forge in the yard and set out his equipment: picker, tongs, heavy hammer, and light pincers. Wyatt's had delivered two sets of fullered shoes.

While Carrigan began work on the shoes, Helena put a halter on Monarch and led him out of the stables. He was a six-year-old gelding who had a fine disposition. Though moodiness sprang up in him every once in a while, he was pretty reliable.

Carrigan's back was to her as he set the hammer down on a tree stump. In lieu of a hat, he'd tied his hair with a piece of thin rawhide to keep it from his eyes. The gathered length of glossy black fell between his shoulder blades. The sight made her want to touch his hair . . . and pull the string free so she could sift every strand through her fingers. It was only when Carrigan pivoted toward her that she returned to her senses with a dry-eyed blink under his order of, “Hobble his fore feet.”

“No need to,” Helena replied. “He's so gentle, you could stake him to a hairpin. He's fast, but he's a sweetie.” Her hand smoothed the bay's coat.

Monarch tolerated Carrigan's management with hardly a grumble. Utilizing a punch, Carrigan dragged the old shoes off with the short rod of steel, then he used the pliers, and employed a drawing knife. Helena had to swallow her trepidation, having seen the handiwork of too many smithies who thought cutting the horn low was the key to preventing rocks from embedding into the sole. But Carrigan knew to remove just the brittle areas and create a smooth, even surface.

He situated the plate of iron, and hammered the nails in the hard horn's wall by slanting them outward, so as not to puncture Monarch's toe or foot. Rather than trim the sharp protrusion of the nail points, he slipped a tiny washer over each one, then lightly tapped them down against the hoof.

Eliazer put his finger on the brim of his hat and tipped his head at Carrigan. “I've never seen that before.”

“Washers cut out weakening the horn from the groove formed by the clinched nail.”

Even Helena was impressed. None of the Wyatts knew this trick.

“Where did you learn about the washers?” Eliazer asked, adjusting the tension on his suspenders. “No one in these parts practices such a method.”

Crouched and fixing the last shoe in place, Carrigan spoke around the nails between his lips. “Ranch near Cheyenne.”

Eliazer fingered his beard. “I heard it told, cattle up there are bigger than bears.”

“I wasn't herding cattle back then.” The tap of the hammer intruded on his words. “Sheep.”

Puzzlement furrowed Eliazer's brows. “Sheep?”

“Working for cow outfits was what I did first and last. The sheep came in the middle.”

Helena listened with interest.

“I can fence, brand, buck hay, bronc, and punch, but where I was headed, there were no cattle. Just stinkin' sheep.” Fitting the washers, Carrigan kept talking as if he were unaware of enlightening them with a slice of his former life. “I wanted out of Red Springs fast. Range-lambing five hundred ewes was the quickest exit. I'll admit, it was a job no true cattleman in his right mind would ever take. But I wasn't in my right mind.”

Not once had Carrigan revealed so much of his past, and Helena was hanging on to his every word.
She was dying to ask him questions, but he'd risen to his heels and was handing her the reins.

Using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, Carrigan said, “Get me the other one.”

Complying, she returned Monarch to the stables. The gelding was tenderfooted from the forge. Helena still wouldn't be able to run him or Columbiana, but by the week's end, the station would be in full operation again with rotation horses.

After putting a hackamore on Columbiana, Helena came out with her. Columbiana was a spirited mare, and Helena's best mount. She often reserved her for Thomas to ride.

With ears pinned back and nostrils wide, Columbiana was truly a resister of everything. But Carrigan didn't flinch at the horse's headstrong display when Helena deposited the rope in his hand. Skittish, Columbiana bumped into him. He shoved her away with a hard push. “Get the hell off my foot.”

“She's the fastest horse I've ever seen,” Helena said. “She's also a pain in the ass.”

Carrigan gave her a double glance. “That you, Helena, who just said ass?”

“I did,” she replied evenly, unable to contain her smile. “Sometimes a good, mouth-filling oath is the only way to describe Columbiana. Just wait until you try and shoe her.”

“The animals that Hart and I used to ride were violent when it came to shoeing. The only way I could subdue them was to throw a rope around each foot and stake them out. I'd have Hart on the head and another man on the body while I trimmed the hooves and nailed on the iron. Those damn horses would squeal and bite all the time I was working with them. If I can shoe those devils, I can shoe this one.”

The skin on Carrigan's face was baking a dark brown from the high sun, enhancing the green of his eyes, which matched the spring buds of the cottonwoods
leafing out. He took a black neckerchief from his pocket and tied the ends around his forehead to keep his perspiration at bay. She regretted his not having a hat and promised to rectify that by the day's end.

He pointedly looked at her; his studied gaze carried a hint of admiration. What for? she wondered. Just because she was willing to do dirty work? Her senses whirled, and pleasure radiated outward to her smile. She was impressed with the obvious confidence he had in her, though baffled as to why she should take his quiet appraisal to heart.

“Ready?” His smoke-roughened voice held a challenge.

Helena gave him a firm nod, and she and Eliazer did what Carrigan told them.

By late afternoon, every muscle in Helena's body ached as if she'd been dragged through the yard on the end of a lariat. Columbiana wasn't to be shoed easily, and Helena would have the nasty bruises to prove it.

When Ignacia rang the supper bell, Helena hobbled to the door. Outside was a tin washbasin on an overturned barrel where she kept a piece of yellow bar soap. She rinsed the grime from her hands and face. An unrecognizable tier of ruffle from her dark blue eastern dress hung from the eaves as a towel. The trailing skirt had been utterly impractical for the West, its train wearing holes within a month. Helena was glad when the dress finally wore out so she could cut it up for better uses.

She dried her skin with gentle pats, appreciating the cool water. Despite the protection of her straw hat, she felt the sting of sunburn across the bridge of her nose.

At the table, Helena barely tasted the venison, boiled potatoes, dried fruit, and sourdough bread Ignacia put in front of her. Bone-tired as she was, she nearly fell asleep in her chair.

Emilie retired immediately after supper.

Waiting for Ignacia to wash and put the dishes away, Eliazer and Carrigan spoke in muted tones about the day's events. When Ignacia was finished, she told Eliazer she'd rub some black birch liniment on him. Helena made a note to do the same on her battered joints.

Everyone had called it a night except for Carrigan, who still sat at the table lingering over his coffee and smoking. And Obsi, who was dreaming with paws twitching at his feet. After the immense help Carrigan had been, Helena felt obligated to stay and hold on to her yawns.

“You have to be feeling a lot worse than me.” Helena wasn't embarrassed to admit her discomfort. “How's your wound?”

“Still there.”

“That's not what I meant.” Her fingers toyed with the red-edged wheel of a white doily Emilie had crocheted as a centerpiece. “Does it hurt bad?”

“Not much.”

She studied his eyes, the corners creased by tense lines. “You're lying.”

He merely shrugged and crushed his cigarette in the saucer beneath his cup. “You got a bathtub?”

“I have a hip bath.”

“Where is it?”

“The pantry.”

“Mind if I use it?”

“No  . . .” Helena was deflated by the prospect of having to drag it out and fill it up. Boiling enough hot water to make the bath soothing would take almost an hour. She stood and refrained from rubbing the knots in her spine. “I'll add more fire to the stove and put on a kettle.” Just the thought made her shoulders slump.

Carrigan scraped his chair back. “I can heat my own bath.”

The relief that flooded her was a welcome tide. She went to the pantry and slid out the metal tub toward
the opening. Carrigan stepped next to her, his hand covering hers. He'd ducked his head to accommodate the low slant of the ceiling, and his mouth was within inches of hers. He claimed a short kiss on her lips—just long enough to say that he was in charge, not her . . . and he'd kiss her if he felt like it. When he raised his head, she collided with his powerful body. Her mouth longed for the contact of his. A whirl of sensations swept through her stomach. She wanted him to kiss her again, but she didn't want him to  . . .

When he pried her fingers from the tub's rim, she refused to acknowledge her disappointment. “I'll do it myself,” he said. “Go to bed.”

Her pulse had quickened in response to him, and her unsteady voice betrayed her feelings. “G-Good night, then.”

She was on her way out of the kitchen when Carrigan called her name. “Helena.”

“Yes?”

“You held your own out there today. That surprised me.” His handsome face was reserved. “And very few things ever have.”

*  *  *

Christ all Jesus, Carrigan hurt. Everywhere. He hadn't shoed horses in years. His own went without. All he did was trim their hooves every eight weeks. He hated to feel pain for something he should have been able to do without any effort. But his insides were still chewed up, and he'd pushed himself too far.

The warm water worked over his indignant muscles, seeping into his bones. He began to relax even though his legs were bent nearly to his chest. Leaning his head against the curled-under rim, he closed his eyes and reviewed the scene at his cabin earlier that morning.

Upon entering the room, the first thing he'd noticed was the coil of rope thrown to the floor. The hemp reata normally rested on top of his trunk. When he lifted the lid, he could tell someone had rifled through
the contents. The object missing was the one thing Carrigan was attached to besides his animals. Hart had taught him the fine art of gunsmithing, and Carrigan had made a hand-bored revolver with a handsome carved mahogany grip. It had taken him just under a year to complete. The gun was a nice pocket pistol that took a .32 shell and threw a sufficient and accurate bullet for target practice. Now it was gone, and Carrigan's anger was aimed toward the man who'd stolen his valued property.

Nothing was misplaced or out of order on the outside. Having a fair idea where the gunman had hidden, he investigated an exaggerated circumference looking for tracks. The melted snow had turned the ground into a sponge of moldering pine needles that were unreadable. When he came to the area where he'd been shot, wild grass grew in a cropped blanket, and his search turned up nothing.

What puzzled him was the fact his watering trough was three-quarters empty. He refilled it once a week to compensate for evaporation. Even in his absence, the rain and snowmelt should have kept the contents higher than they were.

On further investigation, he found a tiny hole in the side. The water level was dead even with it, accounting for the leak. He rolled his sleeves and submerged his hand into the murky water. His fingers dredged across the bottom, disturbing sunken leaves and silt, but his hunch paid off. He came up with the blue whistler that had punched through his body.

From the size, Carrigan determined the bullet to be a .36-caliber. It could fit in a variety of models, but the lead plug did narrow down the list of shooters—anyone owning hardware that housed a wheel of .36s.

Pocketing the bullet, Carrigan had taken satisfaction that this one hadn't sent him to Heaven hunting for a harp. Sooner or later Hanrahan would show up in town—and if Hanrahan had been his would-be assassin because he'd come to Helena's aid in the
store, Carrigan was going to be tempted to pump the son of a bitch so full of holes, he wouldn't float in brine.

After a long soak, Carrigan rose from the tub, dried off, and slipped on the fresh pants he'd brought downstairs. He was just finishing emptying the tub through the open door when Emilie came into the kitchen. As soon as she saw him, she froze. Her sunny hair was in its usual dual braids, but she'd changed into a white nightgown several inches too short for her.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. “I'll come back.”

“No need.”

“I wanted some tea  . . .”

He straightened and put the bucket on the worktable. “I'm finished, and the kettle on the stove is half-full. You might as well use the water while it's hot.”

Cautiously she went to the cast-iron range and snagged a cup from the cupboard next to it. Without one glance in his direction, she began to steep an herbal-smelling brew.

Bathwater pooled in scattered puddles on the diamond-dyed floor. Bunching up his soiled shirt, he mopped them up. Then he put the tub back into the pantry.

Emilie acted as if he weren't in the room.

His arms crossed over his bare chest, he gazed at her speculatively. “You don't like me, do you?”

She said nothing, her profile unchanged.

“You don't have to.” Carrigan collected his boots, dirty pants, and gun belt. “Because you don't know me from shit.”

“Shit smells. You don't.”

Sincerely amused, Carrigan couldn't control his burst of laughter. “Hey there, little sister, you're some wisdom bringer.”