Crossings (14 page)

“You didn't tell me you'd be down for breakfast,” Helena said while Eliazer kissed Ignacia's thin cheek, then set out for the stables after removing his slouch hat from the peg by the door. Ignacia gathered the dishes and stacked them in the dry sink.

Carrigan gazed at her from underneath the dark lines of his brows. “We didn't get around to discussing that last night.”

She couldn't prevent her cheeks from becoming warm, but she wouldn't give him a response. “What do you propose to do after breakfast?”

He took a bite of pancake, chewed, then swallowed with a gulp of coffee. “What you got me here to do. Raise some hell with the hay yard owner. I saw the sorry state of your feed pile yesterday.” After consuming the last portion, he shoved his plate away and hooked his finger through the handle of his coffee cup. “You can forget the blacksmith's services. Just buy the shoes, and I'll nail them on the horses myself.”

Helena left the table and brought Ignacia Carrigan's plate. “You've shoed your own horses before?”

“Mine and several hundred.”

“Where?” she asked, more anxious to know about his background than his credentials.

“Red Springs. Split Rock. Libertyville.”

“Who taught you?”

“A man named Hart.” He weighed her with a critical squint. “You wouldn't know him.”

“I don't suppose I would.”

Leaning back in his chair, he kicked up his bootheel on the seat opposite him. “You want to know how I learned to handle horses? Flat out ask.”

Helena glanced at Ignacia. Her face was expressionless as she took up a bucket and let herself outside to pump wash water for the dishes.

Resting her hands flat on the table, Helena decided she'd play showdown with Carrigan. He was in a mood this morning, the root of which probably stemmed back to her staving off their kiss. “You're very good at cat and mouse.”

“So are you. You never answered my question about having a husband before me. The way I recall it, you distracted me with your kiss.”

She wouldn't comment on that because he was right. But she could say, “On the day we got married, you said that what we did in the past was our own business.”

“True. But when a woman kisses the way you do, it's only natural for a man to be curious.” He eyed her over the brim of his mug. “Now, you could either be a
widow, or a former lift-skirt. Which one do you want me thinking you are?”

Fury almost choked her. “I'm neither.”

“Then that does make the plot interesting.” His foot came down hard on the floorboards, causing Obsi to relocate onto a rag rug by the pantry. “You were someone's mistress.”

Her breasts rose and fell with mortification. “How dare you!”

“I can dare anything I damn well please.”

Helena wanted to hit him. She'd never had the impulse to strike a human being in her entire life, but Carrigan had gone too far in his assumptions. White with indignation, she pushed away from the table and turned her back on him. “You will not manipulate me into losing my temper. You're mad because I didn't let you kiss me.”

“You did let me kiss you.”

“I don't believe I had a choice.”

“Don't you go making me out to be a profligate who forces himself on women. I've never had to. I never will.”

She whirled around, not wanting him to dredge up his sexual indiscretions. “What happened last night won't be repeated, so there's no sense in our discussing it.”

Carrigan downed the last of his coffee and stood. His fingers caught her chin. He turned her head from side to side, examining her mouth. “Next time I'll shave.”

Horrified that he noticed, she felt her breathing hitch. “I told you there won't be a next time.”

“Don't think I'll shave right now,” he mused, scratching his jaw with blunt fingertips, totally disregarding her. “We could use the beard to our advantage. I look rougher-edged with it. And the whole point is to make Lewis jump like he's stepped on raw eggs.”

“You remembered his name.” Helena had mentioned
Mr. Lewis to Carrigan only once—the day she asked him to marry her.

“I remember everything anyone tells me.” Carrigan's voice grew distant. “Or does to me and my family.”

There was a double meaning to his words that ran far deeper than the generalization on the surface.

Carrigan started for the hall. Helena and Obsi followed. It seemed a plan was in the workings and Helena had no part. She stated her case to Carrigan's broad back. “I thought before we went, we should discuss the terms of my account with the hay yard. I should fill you in on the details of my business dealings in Genoa so you can tell Mr. Lewis I've always paid my bills and—”

“I don't discuss,” Carrigan broke in. “Action gets results. Whatever you've got to say, tell me on the way.” He snagged his coat from the hook and shoved through the curtains to the store.

Emilie, who was readying the merchandise for opening, glanced up at their intrusion.

“We're going to see Mr. Lewis,” Helena said, keeping pace with Carrigan's long stride while putting on her cloak. “We'll be back shortly.”

When Carrigan was out the front door, Emilie raced to Helena and whispered, “Lena, he looks positively bloodthirsty.”

Helena replied with quiet but desperate firmness. “I hope he is.”

*  *  *

Heavy hauling between California and Virginia City packed Main Street with wagons and teams. Sometimes horses, mules, and oxen were tied to the wheels of their wagons to feed overnight because stable room was not available.

Helena wondered what Carrigan must think of it all, having not been exposed to such a density of man and animal for so long. At certain times, it was almost
impossible for a pedestrian to walk the street without risk of getting his head kicked at.

The running of the two buhrstones from the flour mill on Mill Street lent the scene a rumbling background hum. A different sound, but no less potent, came from the sawmill irons operated by flutter wheels and an upright sash saw. The building was located at the mouth of Mill Creek Canyon—the town's source of drinking water by way of being diverted in little ditches that spread beyond the city's limit to irrigate the fields, farms, and ranches. This source was also what kept the many deciduous trees flourishing, in addition to rotting the boardwalks in places. Especially in April when the rains came and flooded the channels.

A roar of vulgar laughter erupted from the open two-paneled door to the Metropolitan Saloon. The split-log benches sheltered from the sun by awnings were vacant, indicating the shiftless group was inside having a grand old time. Shad-bellied nags with their cinches loosened were butted shoulder to shoulder at the hitching rails. An odious smell rose from the ground, which had become a gumbo of droppings. Offended, Helena put a hand to her nose and mouth without veering her gaze to investigate the raucous jug-house. She'd never once tried to steal a peek inside.

But Carrigan was interested. He stopped and glanced through the smoke-filled doorway. “This the favorite watering trough?”

“It's one of two, but seems to be the most popular.”

“Hanrahan ever come here?”

“When he has money in his pockets, he goes on wild sprees. But his paydays are always numbered.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There are a dozen or more ranches in the valley that he can work on, but from what I've heard, he never stays long on one before he's let go. Usually for
fighting.” She pondered Carrigan's motives. “If you've got a mind to look for him, I wouldn't know which way to direct you. You'd pretty much have to ride out to each ranch individually, and that would take you days.”

Carrigan moved on, Obsi trailing. Helena noted Carrigan took in the fine elements of his surroundings. His right arm bent slightly at his elbow, the fingers on his hand spread wide. Ever wary of strangers, he'd pushed his coat back so no one could mistake him for being unarmed. She didn't blame him, as she often looked into the faces of unfamiliar pedestrians, wondering if one of them had killed her father.

Blatant stares and shocked expressions landed on Helena from those who knew her. Word of her marriage must have blazed like a prairie fire, scorching and consuming those who got an earful. She didn't care. None of them had ever professed any loyalties to her. Not all, but some, lived for gossip and fuel to feed their cracker-barrel conversations. Well, now they had fresh news to jaw about. Carrigan was an imposing figure, a man who'd never ventured this far into their town. His walk down Main Street took merchants and customers by surprise. Doorways filled with gawkers, while movement on the boardwalk stopped as they walked past. By this evening, she and Carrigan would be the topic at many a supper table.

Helena chewed on the inside of her lip, putting up a front of nonchalance she didn't necessarily feel. “I wanted to tell you about my accounts with Mr. Lewis.”

Carrigan jumped down to the muddy thoroughfare after her as she dodged vehicles and veered up Carson Street.

“For as long as my father was alive, we've had credit. Not once have we disregarded a bill and not paid it. But after my father's death, suddenly I was denied service. Though Mr. Lewis never came out and said so, I believe it's because I'm a woman.”

“Can't fool him there.”

She gave Carrigan a glance. “What's your point?”

“I have no point.”

“And?”

“Neither does Lewis. Within the hour, you'll have feed.” Carrigan gazed at the sights, his brows drawn into a frown. “Where's the hay yard?”

“There.” She motioned to the stout-framed establishment four doors down.

Carrigan took her by the elbow and guided her to the weathered building with double-wide doors. They entered the barnlike cavern where dim light filtered through windows hazed by grain dust and the dormant webs of spiders. The wall was twenty feet on the sides, soaring to a near twenty-five in the center where the roof peaked. Hay and straw bundles were stockpiled one on top of the other. The scents of alfalfa, clover, and grasses clustered in the air. Scythes, cutters, and various plow tools lay in the front of the building, while to the immediate right was a framed-in office with a single entry door.

Helena proceeded, but at the open threshold, Carrigan put his hand on her shoulder.

“No disrespect,” he said, “but I'll go in first.”

Staying back, Helena let Carrigan pass. Then she stepped in behind him. Carrigan's unannounced intrusion had the desired impact on Mr. J. H. Lewis. His mouth fell agape; he was shocked by the sudden appearance of the man all of Genoa knew nothing about—but feared worse than the plague. Lewis rose from his chair on quaking legs and smoothed the wrinkles of his checkered trouser legs. As he removed his spectacles, his eyes went wide and traveled the inordinate length of Carrigan's tall stature. Then of Obsi, who was displaying his canine incisors.

“Lewis,” Carrigan kicked off before the man had a chance to make an inquiry.

“Y-Yes?” J.H. stuttered in a voice strewn with hesitation.

“Jake Carrigan.”

Helena nervously wet her lips. Feigning innocence, she directed her gaze to the windowsill. A battalion of dead bottle flies and one solitary wasp were aged casualties of entrapment.

“I understand you're refusing service to my wife.”

Lewis swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I've had some resent reservations about rendering her service . . . yes.”

“Has she ever not paid you?”

“I . . .” Sweat popped out on his face, and he drew out his handkerchief to blot his ruddy skin. “No.”

“Then what seems to be the trouble?”

Lewis's hands were jittery as they lifted to refit his eyeglasses behind his ears. “When Miss Gray's . . . er, Mrs. Carrigan's father died, I grew concerned about the risks of doing business with a woman. Without the sensibilities of a man's head—”

“What do I look like?”

“Look like?” he muttered, clearly confused by Carrigan's remark. “Well . . .”

“I hope to God you say a man, because anything else is going to insult me.”

“I didn't mean to—”

“No,” Carrigan interrupted. “I'm sure you don't mean to waylay that shipment of feed to our stockade. I expect you'll have it there by noon.”

J. H. Lewis glanced at the dozen notes pinned to his wall, and the calendar that was penciled in with various job orders. “That would be impossible today—”

“ ‘Imposible' doesn't exist in my vocabulary. I suggest you make the arrangements.” Relaxing his finger around the trigger of his revolver, Carrigan tilted his head. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis spouted stiffly. “Very clear. I'll get Billy right on it.”

Carrigan turned to leave, then stopped and faced
off with Lewis again. “You owe my wife an apology for the way you've treated her.”

J.H. cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Carrigan, for any inconvenience you may have suffered.”

Helena silently accepted his atonement.

“Let's go,” Carrigan said flatly.

She followed his lead, her astonished thoughts leaping ahead of her legs as she stepped outside with Obsi at her skirts.

“Which blacksmith do you use?”

“Wyatt's across the street.”

A wrought-iron sign hanging from the front eave was inscribed with:
Wyatt & Sons, Blacksmiths.
The clang of a hammer against an anvil pealed through the street, while the heat of a forge being fanned by the bellows lit up the inside like a blooming fireflower.

“Wyatt treat you like Lewis did?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.”

On the way over, Helena tried to subdue the quickening in her ribs. She had encountered many stalwart men during her years in the West. Salty drovers, gritty settlers, and stoic bluecoats who settled their disputes with physical force. But none made such an impression on her as Carrigan's performance with J. H. Lewis. Contrary to Carrigan's opinion he wasn't a man of discussion, it was his tough words that demanded she be given due respect.