Crossings (42 page)

Seaton enjoyed a final puff of the cigar before he tamped the ashen tip out in the bowl. “Well, I guess this is it,” he said without a single note of fear in his voice. “You've been a pain in my ass, Carrigan. This time I intend to put your lights out for good.”

But the words were the last Seaton would ever speak. Before Hanrahan's arm was down at his side to grip his gun, Carrigan had drawn and fired. The close proximity of the shot blew Seaton from his chair. He fell backward, tumbling onto the floor with a thwack that raised the sawdust.

The swinging doors busted inward, and Ike and
Horace came panting in on shaky feet. Behind them was a group of six gentlemen in nightshirts that fell to their calves. They were a sober bunch—like a half dozen jurists coming in to proclaim their sentence. Taking one look at Carrigan with the smoking gun in his hand, they hoisted their weapons—a mixture of shotguns and pistols. With Hanrahan sprawled on the floor, a crimson stain barely visible on the front of his shirt, it looked bad. Real bad. Vigilante committees weren't known for their honesty. A hanged man was better than a released man. It looked more like they were doing their jobs when they slipped a rope around a neck instead of waving good-bye as the offender rode out of town.

“We're going to have to talk with you, mister,” the man standing in the forefront said. “Drop the gun on the table, nice and slow.”

Carrigan did as he was instructed, then lowered himself into the chair and hoped to God he wasn't a dead man yet.

*  *  *

Helena left Emilie's room, quietly closing the door. Thomas had come through his ordeal, and it appeared as if he would make a full recovery. Emilie had sat with him all night, making sure he was comfortable. Since that late hour of reflection when the two sisters had shared cups of coffee in the kitchen, they'd been more in tune with one another. A hand on a shoulder, or a kiss on the cheek. Helena hadn't realized how much she'd distanced herself from Emilie. From everyone. But she was beyond that now. Life moved on, her with it. There would be no more tears, no more looking back with sadness. The future was what loomed ahead. But without Jake, what happiness would there be for her?

Helena descended the stairs, the sharp smells of coffee and bacon coming from the kitchen as Ignacia prepared breakfast. Not altogether hungry, Helena had had enough coffee to keep her up all day. But a
little food would help settle the nerves in her stomach. There was someone she had to see, and now was as good a time as any. She wanted to clear something off her conscience. A confrontation was the only way. No matter that the sun hadn't been in the sky for very long. She knew that Bayard Kimball went to his office very early in the morning.

Sitting at the table, Helena ate what she could. After washing a biscuit down with milk, she stood from her chair.

“Ignacia, I'm going to the judge's office. If there's any change in Thomas, or if Emilie needs me, please send Eliazer.”

“Yes, Miss Lena.” Ignacia was fixing a tray for Thomas in case he wanted to eat when he woke. “I don't think Mr. McAllister will take a turn, though. Your sister is a good doctor. Much like yourself.”

“Let's hope we won't have to doctor anyone else for a long time.”

Ignacia nodded with a heartening smile.

Helena took her leave with a glance at the clock on the sitting room mantel. She had one hour before the store needed to be open. But if things went bad at Bayard's and she was too upset, she wasn't going to open today. Emilie needn't be pressed into working behind the counter, and Ignacia had enough to do without the extra work. Today things could just fall apart. Helena didn't care.

As she stepped out of the store, she thought it ironic that almost two months ago, she would have done anything and everything to keep the store and station operating. No matter the price. But now she'd learned that nothing was as important as the people she loved. Emilie . . . she should have always come first for Helena, but she hadn't. Helena intended to make that up to her sister. Ignacia and Eliazer . . . they were due for some quiet days of rest in which they could do whatever they chose. Jake . . . he was the most deserving of all. And that was a second chance. Even if
he wanted to leave, he had to realize that she truly loved him with all her heart, and that she'd be forever grateful for everything he'd done for her.

Why hadn't he come back?

The lament was a constant fixture in her mind. He should have been in Genoa by now. That he wasn't only increased her fears that something had happened to him. Something . . . No, she didn't want to think it because she had no means to do anything right now to bring him back. She had to rely on her faith, and pray he would be all right. That he was taking his time, that he was being cautious, that he would return to her and she could have one last chance to tell him . . . to finally speak the words she'd been hiding in her heart.

“Mrs. Carrigan.”

Helena looked up to find Mr. Van Sickle coming down the boardwalk.

“Glad I caught you,” he said. “Word came into my station that as of today, the Express is shut down.”

“All of it?”

“Everything. From Sacramento to St. Joe. It's been suspended.”

Helena wished she had her shawl. She suddenly needed the warmth. If the Express was closed, that meant that the dangers were far greater than anyone had anticipated. That meant that Jake was out there unprotected. . . .

Van Sickle scratched the underside of his chin. “One of the owners, Alexander Majors, was the one to stop it. Said until adequate military protection could be offered his riders and the stations, it's the end of a legend in the making.”

Her father's dream of seeing the West connected to the East via a trail where letters were exchanged was dying, and all Helena could think about was how she could save Jake—not the dream. Had she come to love him so much that nothing else mattered but his well-being, whether he was with her or not? Was this what it was like to love someone unconditionally?

“Heard there was some trouble with one of the riders.” Mr. Van Sickle's voice broke into her thoughts. “McAllister, wasn't it? He's a nice kid. Will he be all right?”

“Yes, my sister is staying with him, and I think he's going to be fine.”

“Mind if I go check on him?”

“Not at all. Ignacia's there to let you in.”

Van Sickle tipped his hat and strode by.

Helena proceeded, crossing the street and walking toward the courthouse. Fear got the best of her. It gripped her, took hold, and shook. She couldn't help shivering, not wanting to imagine the worst had happened to Jake . . . but sensing that it had. Otherwise, he would have come back. Even angry at her, he would have wanted to see how Thomas was doing. And see Traveler . . . and Obsi.

When she reached the outside steps, she was on the verge of tears. Blinking them back, she held the railing and went up. Her heart was thundering in her ribs as she finalized in her mind the lecture she would give Bayard. First, she would demand to know why he told Jake about the deed. She didn't like being hostile to anyone. But enough was enough. There was no call for Bayard to speak to Jake in the manner in which he had about the land. That was business between herself and Bayard as an officer of the court. It had been easily misconstrued by her husband as her wanting him out of her life. Well, Bayard wasn't stupid. He must have known how it would appear, and had taken great pleasure in making Jake look like a fool. She wasn't going to accept Bayard's conduct. Calling him on it, and splitting any ties between them, was the only way.

Knocking on the door, she waited for footfalls to reach her. At length, they came. When Bayard swung the door open, it was apparent he hadn't been too involved with his work. His tailored black suit was
minus its tie, his vest hung open, and he wasn't wearing his coat.

“Mrs. Carrigan, what a pleasure.” He stood back. “Please come in.”

She did so.

“Excuse my appearance. I was reading some files. I don't normally receive callers at this hour, but for you, I can always make an exception.”

She followed him toward his desk and took a seat opposite him. There was the usual stack of papers and folios on the top, as well as opened letters and writing implements. Once he was facing her, he rolled himself forward in his chair. Putting his hand on the pile of papers at his left—the Kinsey recorder's book that chronicled Genoa's transactions on top—he dumped the stack into the open drawer below. With a shove, he closed it. There must have been a key dangling from the lock, because he withdrew one and let it fall into his vest pocket.

“What can I do for you?”

Her pulse was like the tattoo of a telegraph, but there was no help for the rage she was feeling. It would do no good to come right out and lash at him in a biting tone, but that was precisely what was on the tip of her tongue.

Since she could be very good at disguising her feelings, she forced herself to remain composed, folding her hands on her lap and giving him a smile she didn't feel like giving. “I was wondering if you've had the opportunity to legalize the transfer of my parcel into my husband's name.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I'll have him come by and sign the register.” She waited for Bayard to say something to the contrary. When he didn't, she wanted to scream. He was sitting here with every opportunity to explain himself to her, and he wasn't.

“I'll make sure—” A knock on the door interrupted
his sentence. “Pardon me.” Rising, he went to the door and answered it.

Helena turned in her chair to see who was there. It was Mr. Lewis.

“Excuse me,” he said, glancing between the two of them. “But we needed the permit application for the buildings.”

Helena gazed at her lap, then at Mr. Lewis. He was looking at her as if he thought she shouldn't be here. She couldn't hear the rest of their words, but soon Bayard was closing the door and walking back to her.

“Excuse me, but I need to speak with Mr. Lewis downstairs.” Bayard buttoned his vest, retrieved the coat from the back of his chair, and picked up several blank forms from his desk. “I won't be gone but a minute. Please stay so we can continue our talk.”

Nodding, Helena watched as Bayard let himself out the door. As soon as it was closed, she sat for a long moment, indecision skittering through her. Her mind made up, she rose from her chair and went around to the front of Bayard's desk. She scanned the contents of the desktop. Documents of the territory, depositions, fine bills, letters that looked unimportant. Nothing of interest caught her attention.

Her gaze fell to the drawer Bayard had put the Kinsey book in. She wanted to see Jake's signature herself, but knew that drawer was locked. What was in there that had to be put under lock and key in her presence? Didn't Bayard trust her? She had to laugh. Of course not. Bayard didn't trust anyone.

Helena resolved she would never see that register as she turned to resume her seat. But when she did, the new angle afforded her a different view of the drawer. It wasn't pushed in straight. Holding her breath, she put her hand on the handle and pulled. It opened! The lock hadn't caught.

She quickly lifted the book and flipped to the page with recent recordings. There was Jake's signature, and everything appeared legally entered. Helena had
hoped that Bayard had somehow misrepresented himself. But it all seemed to be in order.

When Helena put the book back, the papers beneath it shifted. She caught the edge of a daguerreotype. Her fingers fell to the corner, and she slipped it away from the documents obstructing her view. As she brought the photo toward her, her hand began to tremble.

The picture was a sliver of a whole. There had once been four members of a family on it, but now there was just one.

Her.

“My God  . . .” Helena whispered, staring at the reflection of herself that last day in New Providence. Bayard had the photo that had been in the cash box.

The door slammed shut, startling Helena from her shock. She raised her gaze, only to see Bayard bearing down on her with an anger in his eyes that made her blood run cold.

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