“This is everything I have!” she cried.
“You’re everything I have,” he shot back. “I will not lose another woman to a fire fiend. Do you hear me? I won’t let you kill yourself. Swear it!”
Her mouth quivered, and the blue of her eyes widened. The tone of her voice came out in a barely discernible whisper as she said, “I . . . swear.”
He shoved her away, firmly told Obsi to stay, then fled the stockade, still holding the bucket.
Pandemonium had broken out in the street, but someone had had the brains to at least form a bucket brigade. As Carrigan drew up to the conflagration, dust and hot ashes blew into his eyes. He squinted, staring into the burning blaze, momentarily blinded by its consuming power. The first building to go had been Wetherill’s barbershop. Constructed of wood with thin paper covering interior walls, it had ignited as easily as newspaper in a woodstove. A column of fire shot through the roof, which was in imminent collapse. Glass fell in shards from the windows, as if giving the flames the right to enter. Samuel Paster’s bootery shared a common wall with the barber’s, and the smell of burnt leather was heavy in the air the moment smoke began to seep beneath the door.
Carrigan fell into the line of sweating men who were passing the buckets. No sooner had he tossed his container to one of the runners who were making passes to the water source than he received a full one in its place from the fellow behind him. In a handoff to the well-dressed gentleman in front, Carrigan barely made eye contact with him, but was given as stern a staring in return as the brief time would allow. Carrigan didn’t remember the man and could see no reason for the hostility in his gray eyes.
Sparks flew like explosive celebrations out of the boot shop’s chimney, which was nothing more than a barrel chinked with mud. One of the fire bugs caught in the rubbish pile on the side of the building, spreading to a mound of iron castings, where the red glows mercifully fizzled out. The business next door was Noonan’s grocery. Built of wood, it was extremely dry and ripe for a fire. Within five minutes, flames had reached the roof and were bursting through the front windows.
“Get back!” came the hollers as glass sprayed the sidewalk.
The man with the gray eyes turned on Carrigan. “Move back, will you!”
Carrigan had already taken several sizable steps to the rear, so the reprimand was unnecessary. Had he the opportunity, he would have asked the man what the look was for. As it was, the wind was fanning the fire straight for the stockade. There was only a narrow alley, Mayhew’s butcher shop and the expanse of Nixon Street keeping the wave of destruction from hitting Helena. The one hope Carrigan could see to keep the flames at bay was to outrun them by dousing Mayhew’s. They could climb the stairway on the side of the building and water the roof.
A blast roared from the grocery as some type of contained chemical ruptured from the heat. Men scurried away, the brigade temporarily forgotten. Carrigan tried to stop several men and yelled, “Leave the grocery! We can’t save it. Get to the side of the next building! We’ll water it down!”
The man who’d been in front of him scoffed at the idea. “That won’t work! The place is going to go up in flames. Keep trying to put out Mr. Noonan’s, everyone!”
“Noonan’s is gone,” someone said as the roaring fire fed on its awning and posts. “I think Mr. Carrigan is right, Judge Kimball. We can’t save anything here. Let’s try and hold it off so it can’t burn anything else.”
Kimball. Carrigan took a hard look at the judge Helena said was powerless at finding her father’s killer. This man had the appearance of a growling bear with a sore toe. He had the power.
“Hell yes to that!” seconded a third party. “It’s my business we’re talking about, and I’ll do any damn thing I can to save it!”
“You’re Mayhew?” Carrigan asked, pulling his thoughts from Kimball.
“I am. Can you help me?”
“You bring me enough hands and I can.”
Mayhew hollered into the streets for volunteers. Carrigan led a group of men up the outside stairway, while a handful of others stayed behind to follow the judge’s advice. In the confusion, Carrigan didn’t have a moment to read Kimball’s expression further, but he felt those steely eyes on him as he retreated. Wind-borne fire carried pieces of roofing, swirling great clouds of dust and ashes for Carrigan to dodge. He quickly put Judge Kimball at the back of his mind.
Taking the stairs by twos, Carrigan ran halfway across the roof. A sheet of flames from the grocery rose heavenward and danced about. An abrupt shift in the wind, and he felt his hair singed from the heat alone. The orange eyes of the serpent stared holes right through him. Momentarily frozen in his steps, Carrigan grew transfixed by his mighty opponent. He despised fear, and never more than now did he feel it working through his blood. This is what had taken Jenny’s life . . . bringing her into this hell. Roasted alive in a blazing inferno was not his idea of glory . . . nor a way out of sorrow. He’d never go this far to be released from pain. Never. If only . . . if only he’d been there to stop her.
The water buckets soon flowed, and Carrigan, being in the front of the line, had to snap out of his flashback to dash toward the wavering flames beckoning from the adjacent rooftop. He was momentarily lost in the smoke, coming back out again, choking and coughing, only to handle another bucket and return to battle the insidious enemy before it leaped across the building.
The water brigade did keep the flames at bay for a while, but didn’t quell them. Fire beads shot through the sky, raining down on Carrigan and the men who were struggling to keep Mayhew’s from ruin. There was no way to increase their efforts. Each one was pushing himself to the limit, and water could not come any faster. It looked to Carrigan as if they would have to abandon their cause. His only thought was Helena and what was at stake for her. With a quick glance, he tried to see her on the stable roof. Eliazer was there, his bulky figure not suitable for the kind of energy walking swiftly across a pitched roof demanded. Before Carrigan could see who would follow the stock tender, he had to return his gaze to Mayhew, who stood behind him, and grab a fresh bucket of water.
Droplets fell on Carrigan, wetting his shoulders, but he couldn’t immediately discern the source. At first he thought they came from Mayhew’s water bucket. Only when he turned, Mayhew wasn’t holding a bucket. It was delayed farther down the string.
“Did you feel that?” Mayhew asked, lifting his gaze. “I just felt it again!”
Carrigan tilted his chin, aiming the flat brim of his hat skyward. First one, then a second, drop splashed on his face. The thickened sky, like a dark ceiling, stood still . . . but from it came the kind of refresher that makes itself known in spring. Rain. Plump drops fell from the hooded clouds, dissolving the tiny sparks that bounced at Carrigan’s feet.
“It’s raining!” Mayhew screamed, passing the word down the line. “Rain!”
The moisture began to fall in a large downpour. Pools filled in the dimples of Mayhew’s rooftop as dirty men stared at each other with mouths agape in disbelief. In prior weeks the lot of them had cursed the rain for mucking up the streets. Now they embraced and blessed it with wide, welcoming arms stretched toward the heavens.
Like a river, rainwater filled the gutters of Mayhew’s. The firefighters began filing down from the building and congesting the streets. The shower prevente the fire from spreading, cooling hot ashes and putting out many of the spot fires in the fallen structures. Smoke damage from scorched wood filled the air with a putrid smell.
With his sleeves blackened by soot and a multitude of tiny cinder holes in his shirt, Carrigan stood with the others and surveyed the smoke and embers of the surrounding ruins as they hissed and steamed . . . slain. The blaze had taken half a city block. Smoldering and charred remains left the ground black and reeking.
“I want to thank you,” Mayhew was saying to Carrigan as rain steadily plummeted around them. The butcher had reached out and encompassed Carrigan’s hand with a tight squeeze. “The place wou
ld have been at least half-gone.”
Carrigan saw the light of indebtedness in the man’s eyes. He didn’t like it. Not wanting anyone to feel like he owed him anything, Carrigan shrugged out of Mayhew’s grasp with an affirming nod and began walking toward the stockade.
His ruined shirt was soaked through, and his pants stuck to his legs. Water fell in rivulets from his hat, wetting the back of his neck where his hair rested on his collar. Helena stood in the opening of the stockade gates, rain droplets streaming over her pale face. Obsi was at her side. Rather than go to her, Carrigan veered away and the dog came after him. Out of her sight and to the side of the high wall encompassing the Express station, Carrigan took in wavering gulps of air, swallowing the bile that rose in his stinging throat. With one hand leaning on the rough timbers for support, he emptied his stomach.
* * *
After the fire had been put out, an emergency town meeting had been called at Singleton’s Hall in the Nevada Hotel. The townspeople had converged in the room indiscriminately used by the preacher, several debating clubs, the ladies’ auxiliary, and at least one prisoner. On that occasion it had been before the courthouse had put in a cell, and a man accused of swindling had been chained to the printing press of the Territorial Enterprise. That was before the newspaper operation packed up and moved to Carson City.
Helena had gone to the meeting. So had Emilie, Ignacia, and Eliazer. But Carrigan was nowhere to be found. Helena hadn’t seen him since he’d stood in Nixon Street just before disappearing around the side of the stockade without saying a word to her. She’d worried about him those long, interminable minutes before the meeting got under way. Once it did, her thoughts were taken by the startling news.
The fire had been started by the Paiutes. Ned Sanders had seen them on ponies in the sagebrush behind Main. They’d ridden pell-mell down the alleyway, shooting off several burning arrows into the buildings. There had been only a handful of the Indians, so Mr. Brown, the Indian agent, had discounted the possibility that the episode was a war party. In his estimation the incident was one of young warriors blowing off steam. But still . . . Genoa being attacked in broad daylight made Helena afraid.
“I tell you, people,” Mr. Brown stated over the rain hammering on the ceiling, “I will inform Carson City of the events and request troops be brought into Genoa as soon as possible to dissuade any further trouble.”
The room grew into a buzz of voices, then Mr. Mayhew rose from his chair. “I’d like to thank the Lord for the rain.” Seeing the crestfallen faces of Messrs. Noonan, Paster, and Wetherill, he added, “And I’ll be the first to pitch in and help my neighbors rebuild.” Nods of agreement followed. “But it has to be said, I’d likely be burned down, too, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Carrigan.” Shading his eyes with his hands, Mayhew searched the crowd. He saw Helena. “Where’s your husband, ma’am?”
Helena bit her lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, I think the town ought to know how he saved my shop.” On that, Mr. Mayhew related the events, and a chorus of applause rose from the crowd for the hero not in attendance. Helena graciously acknowledged their cheers, thinking that Carrigan should have been here to receive his congratulations.
“Before you go handing out accolades for Miss Gray’s husband,” Bayard said from the front of the room, “I think you ought to know the truth about him.”
The room fell still, Helena’s heart with it. She stared at Bayard—albeit a ragtag version in his soiled suit of clothes and face darkened with soot—seeing the familiar figure of a man she’d known and trusted. Counted on more times than she had fingers. Been a confidante to, and loyal to the bone. What he was going to say made her nauseated. He would slander her husband. And in front of the town.
“As you know, Miss Gray’s horses were let out on the evening of May the ninth.” It didn’t go unnoticed by Helena that Bayard didn’t address her by her legally married name. “I was a witness to their release.”
A rush of astonished voices passed through the crowd, and gazes fell to Helena. She kept hers fastened on the man who commanded the room. The man who commanded Genoa with his judicial presence. Her friend. Her betrayer.
Bayard’s watch fob caught light of the high lanterns hanging from ceiling chains. “I had the misfortune to see Carrigan letting her animals go. Such an offense is a hanging one.”
Gasps rose; so did Helena. She angrily twisted the front of her apron in her fingers. “I asked my husband about the incident, and he claims his innocence. I believe him. All the animals were rounded up—with his help, I might add—and no harm was done. I will not press any charges against him. I don’t believe the law permits a wife to testify against her husband anyway.”
Bayard’s face went red with rage, and for the first time, Helena was scared of what he could do with the given authority of his appointed office. Could he impose a sentence on Carrigan, even if she wouldn’t accuse him of the crime in question? Bayard’s attempt to slander Carrigan was nothing short of getting back at her for marrying someone else. Perhaps she was due some of his scorn, but she hadn’t intentionally scandalized him in public, as he’d just done to her. What he’d said was cruel, and she wouldn’t readily forget his insensitivity.
No one dared say anything against Judge Kimball, but neither did they back him up in his quest to see Carrigan taken into his custody and hanged for an offense he didn’t commit. Thankfully, just after Bayard’s announcement, the discussion returned to the Paiutes, and the meeting broke up without any further mention of Carrigan. Bayard tried to cut through the throng to get to Helena, but she artfully eluded him, using the side aisles to make her escape.
She couldn’t speak to him right now. Not with the way she was feeling about his duplicity. Once outside of the Nevada Hotel, Emilie linked her arm through Helena’s. They walked with hurried steps in the rain to the general store. Helena’s mind was not at all trained on her stride, but rather on where Carrigan had taken himself off to. As she stepped over a puddle, she tried to piece together why he’d left without an explanation.
“I need to know something, Lena,” Emilie said through the downpour, drawing Helena from her troubled thoughts of Carrigan’s disappearance. “The land your . . . Jake . . . was talking about was the parcel Father bought for us. Wasn’t it?”
Helena couldn’t flat out lie to her sister when Emilie was stating the truth. “Yes.”
“I thought as much,” she replied dismally. “How could you do it, Lena?”
“I had to. It was the only way he’d marry me. I’ll get us other land. I promise. The station will bring in enough revenue for an even better parcel.” Helena wrapped her fingers around her sister’s arm, wanting desperately to make peace with her. “Believe me. Please believe me when I say I would never hurt you, Emilie.”
Emilie stared at Helena, her youthful face looking wiser than her years. “I believe you, Lena. Just stop treating me like a child.”
Helena found no ready reply to give her, no easy rejoinder that would dismiss her sister’s worry of forever being a young girl in Helena’s eyes. Rather than make any false promises, she said nothing.
Once at the station, everyone cleaned up and ate a cold supper before retiring early. The stressful exhaustion of the day had taken its toll on them all.
Everyone except Carrigan.
He hadn’t come back, and the hour had grown late. The rain had increased, its deluge turning the streets into muddy streams. Had the weather permitted, Helena would have put on her clothes, taken a lamp, and walked to Carrigan’s cabin. She couldn’t help reliving the day she’d found him shot.
How could he make her worry so about him?
When they’d returned from the lake, she’d been filled with anxiety over where he would sleep tonight. But if he didn’t come home, she wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. Things had changed between them, but the elements of their marriage had not. At least not here. In the house, their relationship would have to remain the same. There was Em
ilie to consider. She would not embarrass her sister in such a way. And she could not put herself in Carrigan’s embrace again. It was too difficult to leave it. But right now she would have gladly thrown her arms around him if he walked through the door unharmed.
The patter of rain fell on the boardwalk in front of the general store. Helena had come into this part of the house to wait for Carrigan. The rhythmic sounds of torrential water seemed to chant his words: You’re everything I have. You’re everything I have.
The litany confused her already unsettled thoughts. Did she really mean something to him? Or had he spoken to her in the heat of the moment, needing her to promise she’d leave if the fire came too close? Either way, he’d said them, and she couldn’t forget.
In her nightgown, robe, and stockings, Helena stood at the store’s window inconspicuously looking between the frame and the drawn ivory shade for a sign of Carrigan. The intersection was near pitch-dark, as lights from the four corner businesses were all but extinguished. A velvet yellow spilled from beneath the batwing doors of the Metropolitan Saloon. Talk of the fire would undoubtedly fill the rest of the night’s drinking conversations. She’d welcome Carrigan being in the bar getting drunk with the rest of them. As it was now, she hadn’t a clue to his whereabouts.
Blinking her weary eyes, she kept a vigil while shifting her weight from one foot to the other. In a moment she’d make a pot of coffee and bring it back to the window. And wait. And look. And hope.
Chapter
13
Carrigan was dying.
The mother of all hangovers had made itself known in his brain and was hammering mercilessly at his blood vessels until he swore they would rupture from the pressure. Lying on the rumpled bed in his cabin, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling timbers. It had to be daybreak because he could see sunlight beaming through tiny cracks in the corner joints. Staring so long, his eyes grew dry. Carrigan blinked. His vision blurred. Then he closed his eyes again and went back to sleep. For what length of time, he had no idea.
Crossings Page 20