Crossings

by Stef Ann Holm

  “You were in love with him.”

  “Very much.” Of that, she would not lie or lessen the extent of her feelings. But what was to follow caused her to close her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Carrigan’s reaction when she revealed the first part of her deepest secret. “I am not proud to say we consummated our marriage before we were lawfully wed. At that time, I was so in love and knew that we would marry, the lack of a certificate could not stop me.”

  Unbidden, tears gathered as she slowly opened her eyes. She’d thought she was over crying.

  Carrigan’s mellow voice drifted to her. “Love makes people do things they normally wouldn’t.” He sounded as if he knew of what he spoke.

  “My father came for me and took me home,” she said in a rush, blinking back the moisture clouding her vision. “Arrangements were made for a Christmas wedding. I wanted desperately to confide in Emilie. When we were younger, we told each other everything. But what had happened in the territory was too personal. Emilie was only twelve and so very impressionable. I couldn’t tell her. It had been scandal enough that I traveled without being married.

  “The week Kurt was to arrive in Pennsylvania, his partner rode into New Providence alone.” Helena could not stop the tears from spilling. “He bore news so horrible, the room spun when I heard what he had come to say. Kurt had drowned in a river crossing on his horse. . . . It had been raining and the current was . . . It carried him away. By the time he was rescued, he was . . . dead.”

  Carrigan’s thumb caught the tears that rolled down her cheek and on the side of her nose.

  “My grief was so strong that I couldn’t eat and became very sick. A sickness that lasted for weeks and plagued me worse in the morning.”

  “Lena . . . no.”

  A sob hitched in her throat as the second most private part of her past was about to be revealed. “My mother asked me if I was with child. I’d seen her go through the sickness with the baby she’d lost, and suspected it could be true. I had to tell her I thought I was. It was utterly humiliating, and I wanted to die of shame.” Helena fought for air, her heart breaking. “My father had wanted to move for a long time, but my mother put him off. As soon as she learned about my condition, she told Father she would go. She only relented because of me. Because we couldn’t stay where people knew us. When I would start to show, Mother said we would tell Father and Emilie the truth. And to anyone who inquired, we would say I was a widow.

  “We weren’t far into our journey when I suffered a miscarriage.” She quietly wept for the child she couldn’t hold. The children she would never have. “The pain was so bad, I knew it was God’s way of punishing me. You see, this is why I can’t go into the church.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “I can’t. Not ever again.” She shook her head. “My mother took care of me, and told me it was God’s will and for the best. But I secretly wished I’d been able to carry the child. For Kurt. Father and Emilie never knew about my pregnancy, for Mother had told them my illness was due to the rough traveling.” Helena wiped her tears with her hand. “My mother lied for me. She never lied. And she never would have died if it hadn’t been for me. She would have been in New Providence where she wanted to be.” Fingering the cross at her breast, Helena held on to the icon. “This is my reminder. It was my mother’s. And every day I burden myself with its weight because I have to. Because it’s my punishment for what I did. And so now you know. We’re the only ones who do.”

  Carrigan surveyed her without any glare or conclusion that said he thought less of her. “This is why you shelter Emilie.”

  “I have to.”

  “She’s not you, Lena.” His features were deceptively composed, offering no clue to his emotions. “Give her the same chance to grow up that you had.”

  An easy defiance allowed her to challenge him. “But she fancies herself in love with Thomas McAllister. What if she does what I did? Her life will be forever ruined.”

  “Yours isn’t.”

  “But it is.” Her misery was so acute, it physically pained her. “An unborn child wasn’t the only thing I lost that day. I lost any baby I could ever hope to have.” She pulled the blanket closely around her, wrapping herself in anguish. “When we reached Fort Kersey to buy fresh supplies, my mother took me to the military surgeon. His examination was thorough, and he told me I had a lot of scarring inside because I hadn’t had complete bed rest after my miscarriage. He said that in his estimation, it was very unlikely I would ever be able to conceive another child.”

  A dead silence layered the night, Helena sick at heart to think about everything she’d just disclosed. Sacrificing herself to the truth was her undoing. To put herself in a position wherein she had to relate what had happened to her was unforgivable. She’d sworn never to tell a soul. Never to let any man, much less Carrigan, know what he was getting—or rather, not getting—when he married her. The secret was why she’d been so adamant about no sex in their relationship. Now that he knew the echo of sadness from her past, simplicity in their arrangement would be nothing more than a bygone sentiment. Exposing herself in such a way to him gave Carrigan a powerful advantage over her.

  Carrigan’s next words were saturated with censure. “Is all this why you sold yourself to me in a loveless marriage?”

  “What decent man in Genoa would want me if he found out I couldn’t give him children?”

  His voice dropped to a condescending tone. “Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

  Her left arm swung out at him, catching the side of his neck. But Carrigan took hold of her wrist, flung his weight over her, and pinned her beneath him. “I may not be a decent man you could have lived respectably with, but you still should have told me the truth before that ring was on your finger.” His mouth was hot inches away from hers. “Just to reassure you, I don’t need children. I don’t care whether you can have them or not. But I do feel relieved that I won’t have to worry about leaving you pregnant when I go.”

  Scalding tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. Immobile against his unflinching grip, she hissed, “You’re heartless.”

  “No I’m not. I just don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.” He lightly grazed the fullness of her lower lip with a damp kiss. “You knew what you were getting when you married me. What makes you think another man would make you happy?” He kissed away a tear on her cheekbone, then pressed his lips to hers. The salty taste on his mouth was hers as he coerced a response out of her. “You need someone to take you as you are.” His bracing hold on her wrist lightened. She somewhat relaxed, though wary of her body’s traitorous stirrings. “You came to me once, Lena. Come to me again.”

  Carrigan’s lips were hard and searching and more persuasive than she cared to concede. Her mind relived the velvet warmth of his kisses . . . the way he’d made her feel when his fingers and mouth had burned over her skin when he’d brought her to fulfillment.

  “Come to me again,” he murmured, his tongue slipping inside her mouth. His hungry kiss left her weak and confused. Twisting in his arms and arching her back, she sought to get free so she could think without being distracted by his undeniable magnetism. But while her efforts were valiant, her heart was not so heroic.

  She wanted him. Again. As soon as the softness of her breasts molded to the contours of his lean chest. As soon as his uneven breathing filled her ears. As soon as his mouth fused to hers. She locked herself into his embrace, burying her hands in his thick hair and bringing him to her.

  Once again, she gave away her determination to the downpour of fiery sensations. Under the forbidden cloak of night where nothing was bright and true as day, Helena made love to Carrigan simply because she wanted to.

  Chapter

  12

  Carrigan didn’t want to love Helena. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the capability to. He just didn’t have the willingness to live with her. As she lived now. This was never more evident as he sat in the lean-to off his cabin, a smoke clamped between his l
ips as he viewed low clouds in a sky that threatened rain. As soon as he’d gotten away from town, the songbirds’ notes of serenity had overpowered the rasp of hammers, the clink of metal on anvils, and raised voices in greeting and in argument.

  When he and Helena had been by the lake, he’d forgotten about the strain on his ears made by Genoa’s ever-continuing nuisances. The rowdy streets never slept. By day they were clogged with the sounds of freighters and their whips, wagon chains, and tradesmen wielding their professional tools. By night they gave way to the din of drunks, fiddles, and an occasional weapon discharged at the moon. Or no moon. It made no difference.

  Never were these penetrating noises more unbearable to him than this afternoon when they’d rode down from the mountain onto Nixon Street with the string. One minute he’d been enjoying the honks of geese as they flew overhead; the next, the hollers of teamsters at an impasse over who had the right of way in the road had taken over the song of the birds in flight.

  Carrigan had closed off his mind to the ruckus, and in doing so, closed off himself. Getting the horses into the stockade had been a priority. Once inside, he’d shut the high gates—hoping to shut out some of the racket—and begun the long process of checking each animal into its stall. He did all this with few words to spare. In the coming days, there would be much work do to with the horses. Their shoes and the nails would have to be checked, soles cleaned of rocks and gravel, each tail, forelock, and mane combed, quarters scraped, and washings given with warm water. But for today, since it had been late afternoon, the best Helena, Eliazer, and he could do was see that the animals were comfortably in their stanchions with the proper feed for the night. That done, Carrigan had left the station for the temporary seclusion of his cabin to fortify his staying power.

  It hadn’t felt good walking away. In fact, the departure brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Though this was where he wanted to be, he had to figure out how to be alone again. His mind was adrift in this picturesque and remote surrounding that was the only home he’d known in three years of his self-imposed banishment from society. Everything around him was the same, but he wasn’t.

  Last night had been a delicious fantasy. A feast for his senses. His every thought, touch, and taste had funneled in on Helena, and how she’d made him feel. He’d turned a deaf ear on the voice inside his head warning of the repercussions and visions of a future without her. His opinion of this dangerous entanglement with a woman who’d made him forget about his simple existence had been cast aside for his body’s short-lived pleasure. Throughout a night of slow, exploring lovemaking, his feelings had varied. So he’d thrown them all to the wind and damned his promise to put nothing more into it than physical necessity. But the delusion had been dispelled by his awakening with her in his arms. With her sun-golden hair a cloud on his chest . . . her slumbering breath a rose’s blush on his cheek, he’d had to face the stern realities of his life. In five months he would go. And she would stay.

  He would become another painful memory to her, shelved next to the man and child she’d lost. Her admission hadn’t tainted his view of her, nor had beastly jealousy come to nip at him. Everyone made mistakes. He wasn’t faultless. Far from it. But it took a strong person to realize the sins of the past, put a name to them, and beg the mind for forgiveness. Whether or not a soul wanted to accept atonement was up to the individual, for he hadn’t the same power as Helena to speak of his aloud. His own misjudgments were packed lock, stock, and barrel beneath his ribs, stored safely in that organ of his called a heart. If indeed the damn thing still worked. Every now and then he could feel the chambers pumping, but was it blood that flowed through him . . . or ice water?

  Carrigan rose from the crate he’d been sitting on, and with a jerk of his wrist, projected his cigarette into the cold fire pit at his feet. He went to the door of his cabin. The porch was thick with unswept brown pine needles and evidence of squirrels. Webs of spiders glistened in his rabbit traps with a tapestry of gossamer threads. Already the place looked deserted. Pulling the latch, Carrigan let himself in with Obsi at his side to investigate.

  The lackluster interior was filmed by the dirt that had settled from the roof. His wrought-iron bed was a dull gray. Even the red and blue pillows that normally brightened the coverlet were faded by dust from lack of use. There were a couple of dead bees on his tabletop, and a black ant crawling on the globe of his hurricane lamp.

  On a whim, Carrigan removed his hat and tossed it toward the horns on the wall. The hat plummeted to the floor. He walked over to retrieve it, then took a few paces backward and tried again. The brim plunked off the chinked wall and wobbled on its crown in front of his trunk. Bending down, he dusted off the hat on his thigh and resettled the band around his head. He’d been able to perform the trick with his old hat. Guess he was rusty. Or he guessed he wasn’t used to Helena’s hat yet. The reminder of unfamiliarity didn’t bode well in him. Not even his hat felt like it belonged here. Without her.

  Carrigan glanced at the table again. It looked plain and ugly. Not like Helena’s where the center was filled with pinecones and wild rose berries for decoration on top of the red-edged crocheted pieces. This room looked cold and bare with no flowered paper on the walls, nor etchings or portraits. Helena had silver candlesticks on the stone mantel in the sitting room. Carrigan had a pipe-stove with no adornments. Her floors were diamond-dyed brown and oiled so they wouldn’t show grease spots. His were splattered with discolorations.

  Seeing the cabin through the eyes of a man who’d just spent nearly a month in civilization, he admitted that there were certain aspects of city life that could be deemed agreeable. After years of only seeing wildflowers, he’d been treated to windowsill tulips and daffodils in boxes. There were lawns at certain residences that looked a lot better than the sunbaked, barren grass in the low country. The trees even had some good points. Their deep, peaceful shade could be enjoyed while sitting on a swing beneath them. And indoors, he could account for two things that this place lacked: high ceilings that seemed a damn spacious relief after the low log roof of this cabin. And closets. Helena’s place had closets.

  “Jesus . . .” Carrigan muttered. “What am I doing thinking like this?” He needed to ride out to the land. All one hundred and sixty acres of it. To reaffirm that that was what he wanted. That that was where he would be happy.

  Carrigan called for Obsi, who’d disappeared under the bed. The dog came out with an elk bone locked in his teeth.

  As Carrigan closed the door and stepped off the porch, the odor of smoke reached his nose. At first he thought the smell was from his smoldering cigarette. But when he checked, the butt had burned itself out. Sharp apprehension coursed through him. The muscles of his forearms tensed beneath his sleeves; his hands hardened into fists. His heart began thumping madly as his gaze searched the treetops in the direction of Genoa. Over the lofty spires of green, a snake of gray smoke slithered skyward.

  Carrigan instantly set out in a run down his mountain. He was seized by the terror surging in his blood. The fire serpent was deadly, for it had bitten him once before. Flames were a worse enemy to him than the soldiers he’d fought in the Mexican War. Because fire took no prisoners, consuming everything in its path. And God help him, with the wind in this direction, Helena was in the road.

  * * *

  Carrigan pushed his legs to their limits in a mad race down the center of Main Street. His lungs burned from the breakneck pace. General confusion reigned among the men who blocked his way. He shoved past a group of onlookers onto the boardwalk, sprinting over half barrels of merchandise and anything else that obstructed his path. Women, some holding babies, and children crying fearfully were gathered on the front entry walk of the Express station to watch the blaze. The fire hadn’t gotten this far, but was on the opposite side of the street devouring the fourth building from the corner. Rather than fight the monster, many were making a wild dash for safety. But there would be no ground to stand on unless that fire was put out
.

  Thrusting the door to Gray’s general store inward, Carrigan found the interior deserted. He pushed through the curtain partition, then ran through the house and slammed out the kitchen door. Obsi ran next to him in a considerable state of excitement, his frenzied barks filling the vacant yard. The horses had already been driven into one of the outlying paddocks. From the stables, frantic shouts arose. Then Eliazer, his wife, Emilie, and Helena came out with wooden buckets in each hand.

  As soon as she saw him, Helena stumbled but kept her balance and went straight for one of the watering troughs. The wind blew cinders in showers. “Help me,” she pleaded. “We’re going to wet the roof of the stable down so it doesn’t burn.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, gripping her with imploring fingers. “It won’t do any good if that fire gets on top of you.”

  She broke free of him. “Don’t say that.” Dipping first one, then the other, bucket into the water, Helena struggled to hold the handles while moving briskly toward the ladder on the side of the lofty building. “Get water! Quickly!” she told the others.

  Precious seconds ticked by, and Carrigan anxiously gazed at the sky, which had grown thick with smoke. “You won’t have enough water, and you can’t climb that ladder with the weight you’re carrying.”

  “Don’t tell me no!” she screamed in a moan, water sloshing the sides of her skirt. “I have to try!”

  “Then try,” he yelled, snatching one of the buckets from her hand. “I’m going to make sure that fire doesn’t have the chance to burn you out. But if it breathes one spark into that rooftop, swear to me you’ll run!”

  She defiantly said nothing.

  He roughly caught her elbow, taking her unawares and fiercely yanking her toward him. “Swear it, damn you!”