Crossings (33 page)

“When I was a lad, on occasion my mother roped me into the chair and made me do a domestic duty of the house.” Bayard put on his hat, removed his coat, then rolled up his pristine sleeves. “It's been years, but I believe I can hold a dasher without getting splinters.”

Helena had to smile. She rose from the bench she'd been sitting on and allowed Bayard to sit in her place. Spreading his legs, he put the churn between them and took up where she left off. The content expression on his face was a recognizable one. This was the old Bayard. The Bayard her family had known and trusted. She couldn't stay angry with him, for he'd only lashed out because she'd married someone other than himself.

“How have you been faring?” he asked, the cream beginning to make less noise inside the churn. “I see you've been able to add feed to your yard, and I noticed all your horses are running.”

“We've been fine.” Helena didn't want to say, because Jake had come to her rescue.

“Good. Glad to hear it.” Bayard kept on pumping his arms. “You know, should you ever need my counsel, please seek it. I would be wounded if you let this misunderstanding prevent you from coming to me with legal matters. Anything at all you'd require, I could help. Of course, there would be no fee either. Your father was a good man who, on more than one occasion, sought my advice, and I would hope to continue that with his daughters.”

There was something she had to take care of, but Helena had been too involved with the station to begin the legal transaction. She had to sign the deed for the parcel over to Jake. She wanted him to have it so he could bank his future on knowing she would make good on her promise about the land. There was no reason to wait until fall for him to have it. Since Bayard had taken the first step at making amends, the least she could do was meet his efforts with a small token of her own.

“I do have a business settlement I need to transfer.”

Bayard's gaze was receptive. “Certainly. I'll make sure you're well taken care of.”

“It's the parcel of land my father bought for Emilie and myself.”

“Yes. I remember that well.”

“I'd like you to transfer the ownership of it to my husband.”

For a split second, Bayard skipped a dash, but recovered so quickly, Helena thought she might have imagined his reaction. “Of course. I can make sure it gets listed in the Kinsey records. Is there anything else?”

“No. Just that.”

“And you want this effective as of when?”

“There's no special hurry. In the next week if you have the time.”

“All right.” Bayard pushed harder on the paddle, his knuckles growing white from the tight grip he held on the slender pole. “Would you think me rude for asking if your husband has any plans for the land?”

Helena bit her lip. “No, I wouldn't.” Just the same, she was wary to divulge too much about the intricacies of her marriage. “He's going to be building a paddock for the horses he'll be training for the Express.”

“Very good.” The judge's brows arched. “Would he be adding a dwelling onto the property as well? You see, the reason I ask is that the parcel is within legal city limits, and a permit will have to be filed. I can handle that when I transfer the deed.”

Helena didn't want to reveal too much, but in all honesty had to reply, “Yes. He'll be putting a house up.”

Bayard nodded. “I can see the sense in that. Two separate living quarters. It would be more convenient not to travel back and forth between both residences. I assume you'll be joining him there, and I can mention that to the census.”

Becoming more and more uncomfortable, Helena said, “No. I have obligations that keep me here.” She didn't want this conversation going any further and was grateful when Bayard stood.

“I believe you have butter.” Rolling his sleeves
down and slipping into his coat, he tipped his hat to her. “I won't keep you any longer. I just wanted to settle things between us. We are back to the way we were, are we not . . . Mrs. Carrigan?”

Helena watched the hope filling his eyes and heard the sincerity marking his voice when he called her by her married name. She couldn't deny him her friendship. “We are, Judge Kimball. I'm sorry there ever had to be a falling out.”

“So am I,” he said while slightly bowing. “So am I. But I trust things between us will be all for the better in the future. Much better.”

15

T
he ensuing days were warm, but the nights that followed were cold enough to keep the extra blankets on beds. Despite the invasion of Company E, United States Cavalry, into Genoa, the Indian troubles still increased throughout the territory. The appearance of the troopers had Carrigan dredging up his past. After Jenny had been violated, he couldn't look a yellowlegs in the eye without the sharpness of hatred narrowing his gaze. His hostility toward them was durable, never wearing out or letting him go forward with his life. As soon as the blue-clad Indian fighters had taken over the town in a flashy exhibition of forage caps, epaulets, brass buckles, and yellow-striped pants, Carrigan had known the hate once again, keener than ever. These were the pompous men who wandered the countryside in so-called honor, but the only thing they seemed to do was spill Indian blood and rape women. Perhaps not a reasonable description since he'd once been a soldier himself, but it was the most generous Carrigan could offer. He stayed clear of
them, not wanting to have to acknowledge them in any way.

While the troopers protected the streets, the Pony Express riders continued to come through town twice a week. Their supple, sinewy physiques and coolness in moments of great danger attested to their endurance and bravery. From what Carrigan had been able to learn in fleeting conversations with Thomas, the zigzag trails hugging precipices and the dark, narrow canyons were infested with watchful savages, eager for scalps. Only a man who could ride through the mountains swiftly could make it through without delay. Besides the trail being overrun with hostile Indians, road agents roamed the countryside in bands, preying on the mailbags and ready to murder for them.

During these passing words with Thomas McAllister, it became apparent to Carrigan, the young man possessed a strong will and persistence. Thomas was set on taking Emilie Gray to the Candy Dance. That much was evident in the way he talked about the upcoming Saturday night's entertainment without taking his eyes off the lovely Miss Gray whenever he was changing horses in Genoa.

Helena hadn't reconsidered about the dance. She'd told him she'd spoken to Emilie about the new clothes. Though the younger sister was appreciative, her disappointment over the dance didn't diminish. But surprisingly, after a few days, Emilie was taking her defeat rather well. It could have been because she was absorbed in her sewing, but Carrigan sensed there was more to the sudden change.

Thursday night, Carrigan had come into the sitting room late after supper and found Emilie sitting in the high-backed chair, with the blue calico he'd admired with Helena in mind pooled in her lap. Quickly she tried to hide it beneath her bottom, wincing when she must have sat on pins. She had guilt written all over her flushed face as she sat straighter.

“I thought everyone had gone to bed,” she said in an urgent voice.

Carrigan strode into the room with its two sugan-covered sofas, wooden rocker, fireplace, and large picture window with the muslin curtains drawn. The light in the sitting room was the best in the house for reading or doing work requiring a fine eye. A high wheel—which was in actuality an old wagon sprocket—was anchored to the ceiling by several lengths of chain, and seven kerosene lamps could be lit at the same time. Emilie had four going, and the brightness was beneficial for using a needle and thread.

“I left my book in here,” he replied. Carrigan had been voraciously reading ever since the lake, trying to occupy himself at bedtime with thoughts other than Helena. The intimacy that he and Helena had shared was left behind on the sandy shores. Not since the eve of their last night out had they made love.

It wasn't as if Carrigan didn't want to sleep in his wife's bed. There had been no invitation. And this was her house. Her domain. Her rules governed the space. He knew she was sensitive about Emilie knowing what went on between a man and a woman, but he doubted Emilie was ignorant.

Though he desired Helena, he couldn't afford to leave in love with her. Nor could he ask Helena to come with him. What could he offer her? Helena's plan for him to raise horses so no one would question their separate living arrangements had a major flaw. She hadn't considered the price for the horses' heads. He couldn't exactly sell his wife stock and expect her to live with him on the money she paid. That wouldn't be supporting her—that would be her supporting them. He could never take money from her again.

Besides, her place was here. She belonged. She fit in. He didn't. He felt caged in and shackled. There were days when he would stare beyond the stockade
gates to the range of grasses that pressed downward toward the other side of the valley. He'd be halfway to saddling Boomerang for a ride when he realized he couldn't go. There were too many obligations for him to take off when he wanted. He was trapped.

Mostly, Helena worked by his side. She never complained about a nasty job, nor did she shy away from the domestic duties that went with the house. Each day he was falling . . . falling away from his resolve and his reason for being with her. And that was to help without becoming involved. Merely give her his name and be there for her in case she needed him to fight for her cause. That was all well and good, but it was killing him to be so close to her, yet feel as if they were miles apart.

Up at Lake Tahoe, they'd been on his terrain. He'd been comfortable and at ease. And he sensed Helena had been, too. For the first time, she'd let her guard down and taken what her body needed. But here, she'd pinned her hair up and was put in proper order once again. While she was at home, in her house and surroundings, she'd returned to her former self. Wary, cautious, afraid to get too close to him.

“Aren't you going to get your book?” Emilie asked, her face a grimace of pain as she shifted in the chair.

“In a minute.” Carrigan had lost track of how long he'd stood there, his thoughts collecting inside his head. Before he picked up the volume, he sat on the edge of a sofa, his hands clasped between his knees. “I wanted you to know that when I made the arrangement with your sister for the parcel you shared, I didn't know you then. I didn't care whose land it was. I just wanted a piece of it to call my own.” His knit fingers dangled together. “Still do. A deal is a deal, so I'm going to take it. But I didn't want you thinking I enjoy stealing it from you.”

Emilie's eyes were wide and contemplative. “I never thought you were stealing it. My sister gave the parcel to you. There's nothing I can do about that.”

“Well, it's good grounds to hate my guts.”

She adjusted the wad of fabric at her hip. “I don't hate you . . . I just . . .” Clearing her throat, she said, “I don't hate you.”

Carrigan nodded, passing on the subject for another. “Hold it up to your chin. Let me see.”

“S-See what?” she stammered.

“What you're sewing.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's a dress, Emilie. Let me see it.”

Hesitantly she lifted her thigh and removed the bunch of calico. With slow hands, she shook out the garment and put the bodice next to hers.

“Very lovely. And very mature.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“I'm sure Thomas will appreciate you in it at the Candy Dance.”

“Why, I'm not going,” she replied all too quickly.

“Of course you are. That's why you're sewing this dress in secret.” Carrigan rose, taking the book with him that had been on the sofa cushion. “But you should be more careful. I could have been Helena.”