Crossings (40 page)

Emilie was careful to be very gentle with Thomas, each stroke of the cloth a loving and careful blot. His face was toward Helena and Jake when his eyes fluttered open, and he mumbled something incoherent.

Rounding the bed, Emilie bent down in front of him and put her face next to his. “Thomas, you're safe. You're with me. Emilie. At my house in my room. I'll take care of you.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” he exhaled with a rasp.

“Don't talk.” Emilie put her hand on his forehead and smoothed his blond hair from his brows.

“Mmmmmmmm,” he said once again. “Mmmmaaaaaa.”

“Ma?” Emilie questioned. “You want me to tell your mother something?”

“Not,” he spoke through cracked lips. “Nnnnot Ma. Mail.”

“Don't worry about the mail. You need to get better.”

“Got.” He licked his parched mouth. “Got to get through. Mail.”

Helena handed Jake the whiskey. “I think he needs something to sedate him.”

Jake shook his head as he set the bottle on the short-mirrored cherry-wood bureau. “Laudanum first. It'll be more effective against the pain right now.”

“Mail,” Thomas repeated. “Got to get through.” This time he tried to rise, but Jake was at the bed and put his hand on Thomas's shoulder.

“You're not going anywhere, Thomas. You've been hit with an arrow.”

“I know.” Thomas's eyes closed halfway. “Happened . . . by Yank's station. Didn't see the Indians . . . till it was too late.”

“Save your strength.” Emilie laid a warm towel on Thomas's back and continued to smooth his hair. “You need to rest and let me take care of you. I love you, Thomas.”

That her sister could speak the words so unabashedly had Helena a little envious. Even more so when Thomas returned them.

“Love you too, Em. But the mail . . . got to get it to Carson.”

Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and said, “I'll go.”

Helena shot him a surprised stare. “You'll go?”

“I'll ride the mail. I know where Carson City is. I passed through there several years back. Just follow the river.”

“Yes,” Thomas hissed through his pain. “Station's down on Carson Street . . . between Fourth and Fifth.”

“All right.” Jake slid the bead up his hat strings. “I'll get it there.”

“Thanks.”

Jake turned and left the room. Helena went after him. She caught up with Jake on the landing. “You can't go.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It's dangerous. You could get killed.”

“I gave you your legitimacy. You're all set. If something happens to me, take good care of my dog and horses. You can have whatever you want out of my cabin, but nothing's worth a whole hell of a lot.”

“Don't talk like that!” she exclaimed. “Like you don't care.”

“Don't you see, Lena? I have nothing to lose.” Then he departed from her sight, and her heart was broken in two.

*  *  *

It was sometime around two in the morning when Helena finally convinced Emilie to leave Thomas's bedside and go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Thomas had been sleeping comfortably, and soundly, for the past five hours with no threat of complications. Emilie had been by him the entire time. She'd shown a maturity beyond her years, bathing his wound, applying the poultice, binding him, giving him the proper dosage of laudanum, and seeing to it he was resting peacefully. Helena was proud beyond measure.

In the deserted kitchen, she waited on Emilie and served her a steaming cup of black coffee. Her sister's hair had come loose from its bun and fell around her
tired face. She sipped on the hot liquid, toying with the spoon Helena had used in the sugar.

“I think he'll be all right, Emilie.” Helena let the coffee soothe her throat. “You've done a wonderful job taking care of him. Mother and Father would be proud of you. I am.”

Emilie smiled weakly. “I thought that I'd be too scared to help him. But there's something about loving someone that makes you strong.”

Helena squeezed back her tears, mutely nodding.

“I remembered how it was with you and Kurt. How in love with him you were. And how brave you were when they told you he died. I couldn't have been like you, Lena. I would have  . . .” Emilie's tears fell freely. “I wouldn't want to live if Thomas were to die.”

Helena reached out and took Emilie's hand. “He won't.”

Her sister held on to her with a firm grasp, a lifeline of compassion and understanding. Helena made a decision in that split second. It had been a long time since they'd confided in one another. And an even longer time since Helena had told Emilie the truth.

“I'm in love with Jake,” she whispered.

Emilie's chin lifted. “I suspected you were. And he loves you?”

“I thought he did . . . but . . . it's very complicated.” Helena took in an unsteady breath.

“What do you mean?”

Helena lowered her head, then met Emilie's gaze. “There's something I've never told anyone. Only Jake. And Mother knew. Maybe I should have told you before now. Then you'd see why I've treated you the way I have.”

“What is it, Lena?”

“You'll . . . think of me differently once you know.”

“I would never.”

“Perhaps  . . .” Helena released Emilie's hand and
sat straighter in the chair. Gathering her thoughts, she began at the beginning. The day she'd first met Kurt. She left nothing out, revealing everything to Emilie and telling her why she'd raised her the way she had after their mother had died. When she was finished, Emilie stood, went around the table, and held Helena in her arms. The two girls cried for lost years, for years of doubt and hurting.

As the last tears were shed, Emilie put her hands on Helena's face. “You have another chance, Lena. With Jake. You have to make him believe you love him.”

“I will.” Helena nodded, her emotions in shreds. Jake had to be safe. He had to come back tomorrow. “If I get another chance.”

18

C
arrigan had taken a plain room at the King Street Hotel in Carson City. He'd been trying to catch a few hours of shut-eye before riding back to Genoa, but all he could do was stare at the fingers of shadow on the ceiling. The cracked lantern had been extinguished a while ago, and he lay on the springy bed fully clothed with his Walker still strapped to his hip. Maybe he'd known he wouldn't be able to sleep with the way things were between him and Helena. The way things could have ended with his death and her burying him . . .

On the precarious ride along the river, he'd been watchful for Indians. Galloping headlong over the terrain, he'd run into an ambush of some twenty Paiutes. Calmly he'd removed his Colt as he approached them, the barrel sited on a few. There was no way he could have taken them all down, but he could have died picking off at least six of them. With his shoulders low and head down, he'd ridden recklessly toward them with his revolver raised. Bows
were in hand and arrows trained on Carrigan's chest, but at the last second, the leader had let him pass without an altercation. Perhaps out of reverence for his daring. But Carrigan knew his courage hadn't come from bravado. He'd gone ahead with no heed for the danger and the fear of them taking his life because he'd already been defeated in spirit. He'd lost the woman he loved.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it wasn't too late to fight for her. Her words had been soaking into his head for the past few hours. She loved him. It would be enough. It could be. If he'd let it. And he wanted to. He'd been a stubborn ass, running when he'd been home all the time. No matter where they lived, it would suit him because it had to. Because he wanted to be with Helena. But right now, she was there and he was here. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do at the moment.

Reining in to Carson, he'd found the Express station where Thomas had described and handed over the
mochila.
After he told the master what had happened, a telegram had been sent to alert Russell, Majors and Waddell, though there was some question whether or not it would make it through the lines. Carrigan had left and boarded his horse for the night at a nearby livery on the corner of Third and Curry, then he'd checked into the King Street. Buying an overpriced supper in the dining room, he'd eaten the meal before going upstairs to his room. He'd thought he was tired enough to close his eyes and get in a few hours before heading out, but sleep had been elusive. There were people he cared about. People he was lying here thinking about. Thomas, if he would make it through the night. Emilie, if she could handle the situation. Eliazer, if the old Mexican was looking after Obsi. Ignacia, if she had enough firewood for the box, or if in all the confusion of Thomas's injury, she'd have to get more herself.

And Helena. She'd never left his thoughts from the
second he'd ridden out of Genoa. He couldn't sleep without hearing her in the next room. Without being assured she was there in her lawn nightgown with her braid tumbling down her back.

Not knowing the answers to the questions that plagued him, and wanting to set things right between him and Helena, Carrigan sat up and collected the key and handful of coins from the scratched table at the bed's metal headboard. Pocketing the silver, he took his hat from the hook on the wall and went into the hallway. He locked the door and headed out for the nearest saloon. After several cups of strong coffee and a few smokes, he'd be up to sitting in the saddle with as much alertness as he had in him.

He was going back to Genoa before the sun hit the tops of the eastern pines.

Outside, the dark air finally hinted of summer. The usual briskness of spring was absent, and the promise of parching heat in the months to come rode the current. A drowsy smell of grass and flowers overtook the pungent odors of animals, saloons, the old bricks of buildings, and the dry wood of weathered stables. Walking two blocks west and turning the corner, Carrigan entered the Division Saloon through its swinging doors with wickerwork on the tops.

The sawdust on the floor muffled his steps as he strode to a table in the corner near the front. Sitting with his back to the wall decorated with miners' tools and sportive nudes, he surveyed the barroom's interior. The lighting was dim. What little of it there was coming from the flaming cluster of lamps suspended from the ceiling was reflected off the vast backbar mirror. Colored labels of stacked bottles residing on the counter behind the bar lent a bit of cheer to the gloomy ambience. An upright piano was at the bar's left, but wasn't being played.

A handful of men sat at an oblong table covered with black oilcloth near the rear exit. They were playing cards and smoking cigars. On a glance, Carrigan
could make out five of them—the fifth member of the game, just his shoulder. The rest of him was obstructed by the dented stovepipe hat of the man sitting across from him.

The bartender, with the face of a bulldog and a body just as squat, asked in a friendly tone that contradicted his appearance, “What'll it be?”

“Coffee.” Carrigan slumped lower in his chair, kicking up his boot on the chair opposite his. “Black and hot.”

Adjusting the wristbands that protected his calico cuffs, the bartender said, “Bring some right over.”

Carrigan brought out his cigarette makings, rolled one, and lit up. As he was waving the match out, the bartender came over with his coffee. Nodding, Carrigan accepted the cup and set it down to let the steam blow off.

Once again, his attention was drawn to the other men in the saloon. A voice above the rest sounded commonplace, but he couldn't figure out where he'd heard it before. There was a laugh, the clink of coins as they were pitched in as antes, then cards shuffling. After a pause while each studied his hand, that voice spoke up.

“Newt, how many you going to take?”

“Two.”

“Vern?” came the drawl.