Crossings

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Is supper almost ready?” Helena asked as Emilie drew up to her side.

  “Uh-huh.” Emilie knit her slender fingers behind her back and watched with a forced interest that Helena was able to note without much trying. “I closed the store a little early. With the wind picking up the way it is, I didn’t have a single customer the past half hour. I don’t understand it. People won’t come out in the wind, but they will on the first day of the week. Last Sunday we sold over two hundred dollars worth for cash. I don’t like doing business on the Lord’s time, and it seems sacrilegious we do so well on a day intended for church reflection.”

  “Tending store on Sunday doesn’t mean you can’t conduct yourself in a Christian way.”

  “Hmm.” Casual as could be, Emilie asked, “Are you going to make candles now? It’s rather late in the day to start.”

  “I’m dipping them tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” The paper in Emilie’s hand ruffled.

  Helena didn’t say a word about it. “I’m glad you came in, Emilie. I wanted to make you understand why I gave Jake the land.”

  Emilie’s face pinched.

  “It was only fair I compensate him with the parcel to seal our bargain. He didn’t force me into giving it to him. I was backed into a corner to get married because of the town’s refusal to give us service. Two unmarried sisters couldn’t have operated this station without being shut down. One of us needed a husband.”

  “I could have married Thomas,” Emilie said quietly.

  Helena gazed at her sister. “You’re only sixteen.”

  “Mother was sixteen when she married Father.”

  Unable to dispute that, Helena made no comment. “I just don’t want you to dislike Jake.”

  “Why not? You don’t like him.”

  Helena was shocked. “Wherever would you get an idea like that?”

  “Because you don’t share a bedroom with him. You don’t love him, Lena. You can’t pretend you’re happy. Is he going to stay in Father’s room forever?”

  Helena bit her lip. That was a difficult subject, but one about which Emilie would know the truth sooner or later. “No. I told him he only has to stay for six months. After that, he’s free to go.”

  “And you’ll still be his wife even though you don’t live together?”

  “Yes. If I run into any trouble, he’ll come help us.”

  Emilie’s eyes saddened. “It doesn’t make any sense, Lena, to live your life with no happiness.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Parchment stirred and Emilie brought the flyer out into the open. “Maybe you’re content to stay as you are, but I’m not. I got this from the invitation committee. There’s going to be a Candy Dance a week from tomorrow. Thomas said he could ride in from Placerville for the night. He asked me to go, Lena. I want to—”

  “No.”

  “You’re being unfair! You’re not even listening to me.”

  Helena sized a wick next to a mold. “We’re in mourning for our father. We cannot accept social engagements.”

  “If we’re in such deep mourning, you never should have married while you’re still wearing dark clothes.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not. Last year we weren’t in mourning for Father, and you didn’t want to go then. You’re just making up excuses. Well, I won’t give you any. I can cook the molasses candy and sugar candy. You wouldn’t have to do a thing. You wouldn’t even have to attend if you didn’t want to. I could get Eliazer and Ignacia to be chaperons for me and—”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Nothing fun is ever a good idea to you!” Emilie shot back. “You might as well be a prune-wrinkled old widow. You never want to do anything but stay here and make me look like a child! I’m a young woman, Lena,” she implored. Straightening her posture, she proudly displayed the figure beneath the pinafore across her breasts. “Give me the same chance you had when you were my age.”

  The unveiled hope on Emilie’s vibrant face made Helena reconsider. She couldn’t keep staving off her sister’s desire to be courted. To be a wife. That was what every woman sought. Emilie was no different and shouldn’t have to be made to suffer for Helena’s trial at that age. But still, sixteen was young. Too young for a serious beau. “Next year, Emilie,” Helena said in compromise. “When you’re seventeen, you can go to the Candy Dance.”

  “I don’t want to wait a year! I want to dance with Thomas next week!” With that, she shoved the circular at Helena and left the stable in tears.

  Helena held the paper, its dry crackle in her fingers making her spirits sink even lower. She’d thought negotiating the matter would be acceptable to Emilie. But it wasn’t. Her heart was brimming with love for a gallant young man, and she wanted to dance in his arms now. Helena could understand that. Why couldn’t she just let her sister go? She didn’t like being so strict with her, but a part of Helena was afraid to be lenient. The painful reminder of what she had done was ever there in the back of her mind. She didn’t want Emilie to feel such a bottomless void . . . but Emilie wasn’t her. And it was time Helena started accepting that. Or she would lose her sister . . . just as Jake said.

  The door opened on a gust, and Helena lifted her chin, hoping Emilie had returned. But it wasn’t her sister. It was her husband.

  On a dismayed sigh, Helena tried to focus on the candles, but her concentration had vanished. She quietly laid the circular on the counter and put her hands on the wooden edge.

  “What’s wrong with Emilie?” Jake asked. “She’s crying.”

  Helena’s own vision blurred, and she rapidly blinked her tears away. “She’s upset with me because I don’t want her to go to the Candy Dance.”

  Jake moved toward Helena. He stood by her, one hip butted against the side of the bench. Without reaching out to console her, he questioned, “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  Picking up the circular, Jake skimmed through it while Helena watched his reaction. “It’s not my idea of a good time, but I can see why a girl would want to go. I think you should let her.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “You can.”

  “I said she could go next year. I meant it.”

  Jake folded his arms across his chest. “Next year she may not be your sister anymore.”

  Her chin lifted. “How can you say that?”

  “Next year she’ll resent you. Have you ever thought she might run away with McAllister and marry him?”

  “No . . . no! She’d never do that . . . not my Emilie. She wouldn’t go against my wishes. I’m her—”

  “Sister,” Jake finished. “Just her sister. Not her mother. I can’t speak from a woman’s point of view, but brothers are who a man turns to when he wants advice, not a fatherly lecture. If he wants a lick of the belt, he tells his father his honest thoughts. But brothers, and I’m assuming it’s this way between sisters, are more likely to stand up for him. I have a sister, but I was never close to her. I wish I could go back and change that, but I can’t. You still have a chance. You should think about it now. Before she doesn’t come to you at all and does what she damn well pleases.”

  Helena mulled over Jake’s words.

  “I’m no philosopher, and you can tell me to go to hell and mind my own business if you want.” He took off his hat, reshaped the brim with his fingers, then fit the crown over his head. “I just came in here to tell you Eliazer and I made peace.”

  “I was meaning to talk with him, but I’ve been so busy.”

  “No need to. I can take care of my own battles.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I just told him the truth. And swore a lot when I did. That’s a man thing you wouldn’t have been able to convey. Real indignation comes from four-letter words, and I said enough to convince him I’m not to blame.”

  Helena didn’t know what to say. At length she said, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Think abo
ut your sister instead.”

  Nodding, Helena vowed to lessen her restrictions on her sister. Starting with her clothing. No more child-length dresses, frilly aprons, and girlish shoes. From now on, Emilie would dress as a young woman. There were several nice bolts of blue gingham and small-patterned calico that would make suitable skirts. White poplin and cotton could be sewn into crisp, fashionable shirtwaists. Hopefully Emilie would see this as a beginning and be less inclined to fuss over the dance.

  “I need to speak with Emilie,” Helena announced, leaving the candle equipment behind as she went toward the door. She paused without turning around. “What you said about Emilie . . . it made a lot of sense. Thank you.”

  * * *

  “I told you to stay out of town for a while,” Bayard scoffed from the throne of his not-in-session courtroom. “I have no use for you right now.”

  The judge needed to think, therefore was sitting in his best thinking chair with its honeyed oak frame and worn burgundy velvet seat. It served as his throne of authority in lieu of a bench. He’d come to his office to weigh and balance his options like the scales of justice. The unexpected company not only threw Bayard off kilter, the other man’s presence made him cautious. He didn’t want anyone associating the two of them. The idea of being discovered made him apprehensive. Not that he feared this person who’d sprawled his rail-thin legs out before him when he’d sat down in the front row of empty seats. If anything, the unwanted spectator was offensive.

  Bayard figured his visitor considered himself armed to the teeth with the ornate new gun he’d taken to wearing several weeks ago. His old piece had been a Smith & Wesson .36 in pitifully poor shape, that carried a bullet like a pea. Unless his aim was exact, it took a whole pod of them to make it worth shooting the gun. But the ill-kept revolver was gone, though not the bowie knife. Its handle projected from the top of his low-heeled boot. The cocksure tilt to his hip when he was standing said he was always itching for a fight. But he was so blatantly obscene about it, nobody would accommodate him who wasn’t gone with liquor.

  Observing him once in the Metropolitan Saloon, Bayard had noted the hayseed would try any method to ensnare unsuspecting gamblers into making insolent remarks toward him. But there was hardly ever a taker. His face would redden now and then like the color of plums when he fancied he was on the scent of a good fisticuff. But inevitably his pigeon would elude his carefully laid plans of a bloodied nose and worse. Then he would show a disappointment almost pathetic.

  “I came to town to see what all the ruckus was with that fire yesterday. Saw the smoke way out on the ranch,” the man remarked while crossing his legs at the knees. The star-spangled clatter of spurs sounded with his movement.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you started the fire just for the fun of it.”

  “I’m offended by that,” he bristled, making a show out of being indignant. Breaking off a piece of chaw, he stuck it between his lips and spoke around the wad. “So what the hell happened?”

  “The Paiutes started the blaze.”

  “Injuns.” His blond brows pointed with interest. “Anyone going to fight ’em?”

  “Brown at the Indian Affairs Bureau said he’s calling in the military from Carson City.”

  Despite the man’s tough gaze, he had a lot of bumpkin in him, which was evident in his whine. “I don’t like military men.”

  “I could care less about the militia,” Bayard snapped, feeling his patience running down faster than a cheap watch. “I govern Genoa, and the United States Army has no authority over me.”

  “They do if you interfere with them.”

  “I don’t need your one-horse interpretation. You have no knowledge of law’s writs, so quit imposing your opinion on me.” Bayard sat straighter and hooked his fingers over the cushioned arms of the chair. “I want you out of here before someone comes and sees you.”

  “I’m going. To Carson City, as a matter of fact. I got in a fight with one of the hands and lost my job last night. Who the hell needs steers anyway? I’m going to be a professional gambler.” A stream of beetle-brown spittle was aimed at a nearby spittoon and missed by a few inches. “But before I head out, I want to know what’s being done about Carrigan. That son of a bitch is mine, and I’m tired of waiting around until you say I can have a shot at him again. Why isn’t he in your custody like you said he’d be?”

  Bayard angrily kicked the leather Bible that was beneath his chair. “She wouldn’t press charges against him.”

  “You said you’d convince her he was a horse thief.”

  “She didn’t believe me.”

  The man laughed. “Some influence you are in her life.”

  The blood vessels in Bayard’s head pounded his annoyance. He was tempted to rip the man from his seat and shake him until his teeth fell out like corn.

  During moments such as this one, Bayard reconsidered his association with the likes of the degenerate sitting before him. But he’d been able to control the man with money, and in doing so, had been assured of his silence. For Bayard had made the threat early on. One slipup now, and he’d see himself swinging from a cottonwood. So far, his confidence had not been broken. And there had been plenty of opportunities for a loose tongue. No, the decision to involve him had been right. He’d done a good job of scaring Helena that day in the store. . . . If only she hadn’t gone off in the wrong direction. And true to his word, he’d said he’d take care of Carrigan and had indeed shot him with the intent to kill. . . . If only Helena hadn’t mended him.

  Helena. She got in the way more than she sat idly by. But that was one of the things he admired about her. She stood up for law and order, wanting to do right by people. This latest being her offer of free mail service to those who lost their businesses to that fire. He’d found this out from Lewis, a man he’d been able to convince that a woman in business for herself was not a woman for Genoa. He’d spoken to Wyatt and Lewis about Helena running the Express right after her father’s death. Though he hadn’t come out and said it, he’d planted the seeds of doubt in both men, making them think it was in their best interest not to let a woman gain any kind of control in their town. Her being in charge of the Pony Express could have hurt them, seeing as, if she did well, she could secure her own feed and blacksmith and wouldn’t need them. Wyatt and Lewis had bought in to this, and had withheld their services without Bayard ever saying it was his idea. But now Lewis was talking a little more generously about Helena since she’d come to the aid of those burned out, and it bothered Bayard.

  Not only that, Helena kept doing right by Carrigan when she should have been denouncing him at every turn. But Bayard wouldn’t give up. He loved Helena Gray. Plain and simple. He wanted her as his wife. His career demanded he have her. Thoughts of politics were ever in his plans, and he wasn’t going to give up his want of the governorship. It made no difference how Helena came to him. Just so long as she did. But the prospect of having her after Carrigan left the taste of bile in his mouth.

  “What are we going to do now?” The drawling voice intruded on Bayard’s thoughts.

  “I’m working on it.” In fact, he’d found out more things about Carrigan he could use as ammunition without a gun. His inquiries into his past had turned up some interesting information. The Lord had been on his side when he’d done that favor for a judge up near the Yellowstone River. Bayard had hit pay dirt nearly his first letter out. He’d sent a dozen letters to different jurisdictions and had gotten one hell of a reply. All he had to do now was bank on Carrigan having told Helena what Bayard had found out. He would play them off of each other like two pawns, stand back, and watch them tear each other apart.

  “I say you just let me shoot him,” came the whine across from Bayard.

  Bayard glared. “Once was enough. Twice, there would be inquiries. He’s been in town long enough that a murder isn’t as easily swept under the rug as I’d like. I’m still getting questions about August Gray’s killing. And I don’t need that
dredged up. Especially not with the likelihood of Carrigan suspecting you in his shooting at the cabin. I cannot afford any connections between the two incidents. Do I make myself clear? I think moving on for a while is a good idea.”

  The man shrugged. “If I’m going to be a professional gambler, I need a stake to start me out.”

  Bayard sighed heavily while reaching into his coat for his billfold. “Hanrahan, you are a pain in my ass.”

  Seaton’s smile was crooked. “But without me doing your dirty work, Judge, those clean white hands of yours would be as black as the bottom of the outhouse.”

  * * *

  Helena sat outside making butter in a coopered churn. Sunlight caught the edge of her muslin skirt where the hem spilled from the shade of the smokehouse. The spot was a quiet one, a place to reflect and be outdoors while tending to an indoors task. Up and down, the dasher made the cream inside slosh, telling her she wasn’t even close to thickening the liquid yet. The yard was peaceful, the hens and roosters clucking and scratching at the earth that had dried from the rain. Her thoughts drifted to Jake. Since their return, they’d resumed their prior sleeping arrangements. There were too many factors involved to switch rooms now. For one, Emilie’s was directly across from hers. And for two, Helena was too cautious about her feelings for Jake to sleep with him for an entire night. Opening herself up to him while they’d been away had been difficult. If she allowed him into her bedroom here, she’d lose any ground she’d covered in keeping their arrangement cut-and-dried. But that certainly didn’t prevent her from wanting to be with him again. . . .

  Right now Jake was in the stables with Eliazer constructing new feed boxes to replace the ones the horses had gnawed down, and the temptation to walk away from the butter just so she could take a glimpse of him was a constant pull.

  “Helena.”

  At the sound of her name, Helena turned and faced Bayard Kimball. He stood close with a beaver hat in hand and impeccable in a fine eastern suit. His hair was smoothed back and meticulously combed. Gray eyes gazed at her with remorse.