Crossings

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Judge Kimball.” She never missed a beat on her plunging, nor did she address him by the familiar name he was so insistent she call him.

  “If you’ve a moment,” he said in a humble tone, “I’ve come to make my sincere apologies and beg you to forgive my lack of manners the other day at the town meeting.”

  Helena stared across the stockyard at the garden where the seedlings were thickening in a verdant green carpet. She said nothing. What could she offer him? He’d wanted to hurt her, and he’d succeeded.

  “I was totally out of line,” Bayard went on. “It was inappropriate and unnecessary for me to make remarks about your husband when you clearly had come to a decision about his guilt or innocence. I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, and I would beseech you to give me the opportunity to remain your friend. We were that once before, and I’m hoping that this matter hasn’t killed any admiration, which I’d hoped was mutual.” Her continued silence caused him to add, “Please say something before I make a bigger idiot out of myself.”

  Swallowing, Helena sighed before directly staring Bayard in the eyes. “You purposefully wanted to make my husband look like a criminal in front of the town. I was deeply hurt by that.”

  Bayard took a step closer. She could smell the bay rum on his person, a scent that was prominent yet inoffensive. “I will admit, I wanted him to appear guilty beyond a doubt in the town’s estimation so you would see him as a . . . as less than deserving of you. But I can see I was wrong. You don’t think he is capable of robbery, and I have to accept that.”

  “And you also have to accept that the person you thought you saw that night was not my husband, but some other man who you mistakenly identified as Jake.”

  “I will concede that you are right.” Bayard twirled his hat in his lean fingers. “I’ve already confessed to being clouded with liquor. I must have erred in my fingering a culprit.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  The muscles on Bayard’s neck visibly strained. “Would you like me to offer my direct apologies to your husband?”

  Helena felt a moment’s sympathy for Bayard. He wasn’t a man who easily admitted he was wrong. In his courtroom he was always right, and no one else could question him otherwise. For him to offer he’d tell Jake in person that he’d falsely accused him took a lot. Helena saw no reason to draw out the matter further. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I appreciate that.” The judge stepped closer, his face looking as relieved as if he’d just been given a stay of execution. She didn’t want to persecute him. That had never been her intent. She’d just been very disappointed in his behavior. “Butter-making . . . are we?”

  “Yes.” Helena kept on with her rhythmic churning, her arms getting tired.

  “Mind if I try?”

  She gave Bayard a sidelong glance. “Have you ever churned butter before?”

  “When I was a lad, on occasion my mother roped me into the chair and made me do a domestic duty of the house.” Bayard put on his hat, removed his coat, then rolled up his pristine sleeves. “It’s been years, but I believe I can hold a dasher without getting splinters.”

  Helena had to smile. She rose from the bench she’d been sitting on and allowed Bayard to sit in her place. Spreading his legs, he put the churn between them and took up where she left off. The content expression on his face was a recognizable one. This was the old Bayard. The Bayard her family had known and trusted. She couldn’t stay angry with him, for he’d only lashed out because she’d married someone other than himself.

  “How have you been faring?” he asked, the cream beginning to make less noise inside the churn. “I see you’ve been able to add feed to your yard, and I noticed all your horses are running.”

  “We’ve been fine.” Helena didn’t want to say, because Jake had come to her rescue.

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Bayard kept on pumping his arms. “You know, should you ever need my counsel, please seek it. I would be wounded if you let this misunderstanding prevent you from coming to me with legal matters. Anything at all you’d require, I could help. Of course, there would be no fee either. Your father was a good man who, on more than one occasion, sought my advice, and I would hope to continue that with his daughters.”

  There was something she had to take care of, but Helena had been too involved with the station to begin the legal transaction. She had to sign the deed for the parcel over to Jake. She wanted him to have it so he could bank his future on knowing she would make good on her promise about the land. There was no reason to wait until fall for him to have it. Since Bayard had taken the first step at making amends, the least she could do was meet his efforts with a small token of her own.

  “I do have a business settlement I need to transfer.”

  Bayard’s gaze was receptive. “Certainly. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”

  “It’s the parcel of land my father bought for Emilie and myself.”

  “Yes. I remember that well.”

  “I’d like you to transfer the ownership of it to my husband.”

  For a split second, Bayard skipped a dash, but recovered so quickly, Helena thought she might have imagined his reaction. “Of course. I can make sure it gets listed in the Kinsey records. Is there anything else?”

  “No. Just that.”

  “And you want this effective as of when?”

  “There’s no special hurry. In the next week if you have the time.”

  “All right.” Bayard pushed harder on the paddle, his knuckles growing white from the tight grip he held on the slender pole. “Would you think me rude for asking if your husband has any plans for the land?”

  Helena bit her lip. “No, I wouldn’t.” Just the same, she was wary to divulge too much about the intricacies of her marriage. “He’s going to be building a paddock for the horses he’ll be training for the Express.”

  “Very good.” The judge’s brows arched. “Would he be adding a dwelling onto the property as well? You see, the reason I ask is that the parcel is within legal city limits, and a permit will have to be filed. I can handle that when I transfer the deed.”

  Helena didn’t want to reveal too much, but in all honesty had to reply, “Yes. He’ll be putting a house up.”

  Bayard nodded. “I can see the sense in that. Two separate living quarters. It would be more convenient not to travel back and forth between both residences. I assume you’ll be joining him there, and I can mention that to the census.”

  Becoming more and more uncomfortable, Helena said, “No. I have obligations that keep me here.” She didn’t want this conversation going any further and was grateful when Bayard stood.

  “I believe you have butter.” Rolling his sleeves down and slipping into his coat, he tipped his hat to her. “I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to settle things between us. We are back to the way we were, are we not . . . Mrs. Carrigan?”

  Helena watched the hope filling his eyes and heard the sincerity marking his voice when he called her by her married name. She couldn’t deny him her friendship. “We are, Judge Kimball. I’m sorry there ever had to be a falling out.”

  “So am I,” he said while slightly bowing. “So am I. But I trust things between us will be all for the better in the future. Much better.”

  Chapter

  15

  The ensuing days were warm, but the nights that followed were cold enough to keep the extra blankets on beds. Despite the invasion of Company E, United States Cavalry, into Genoa, the Indian troubles still increased throughout the territory. The appearance of the troopers had Carrigan dredging up his past. After Jenny had been violated, he couldn’t look a yellowlegs in the eye without the sharpness of hatred narrowing his gaze. His hostility toward them was durable, never wearing out or letting him go forward with his life. As soon as the blue-clad Indian fighters had taken over the town in a flashy exhibition of forage caps, epaulets, brass buckles, and yellow-striped pants, Carrigan had known the hate once again, keener than
ever. These were the pompous men who wandered the countryside in so-called honor, but the only thing they seemed to do was spill Indian blood and rape women. Perhaps not a reasonable description since he’d once been a soldier himself, but it was the most generous Carrigan could offer. He stayed clear of them, not wanting to have to acknowledge them in any way.

  While the troopers protected the streets, the Pony Express riders continued to come through town twice a week. Their supple, sinewy physiques and coolness in moments of great danger attested to their endurance and bravery. From what Carrigan had been able to learn in fleeting conversations with Thomas, the zigzag trails hugging precipices and the dark, narrow canyons were infested with watchful savages, eager for scalps. Only a man who could ride through the mountains swiftly could make it through without delay. Besides the trail being overrun with hostile Indians, road agents roamed the countryside in bands, preying on the mailbags and ready to murder for them.

  During these passing words with Thomas McAllister, it became apparent to Carrigan, the young man possessed a strong will and persistence. Thomas was set on taking Emilie Gray to the Candy Dance. That much was evident in the way he talked about the upcoming Saturday night’s entertainment without taking his eyes off the lovely Miss Gray whenever he was changing horses in Genoa.

  Helena hadn’t reconsidered about the dance. She’d told him she’d spoken to Emilie about the new clothes. Though the younger sister was appreciative, her disappointment over the dance didn’t diminish. But surprisingly, after a few days, Emilie was taking her defeat rather well. It could have been because she was absorbed in her sewing, but Carrigan sensed there was more to the sudden change.

  Thursday night, Carrigan had come into the sitting room late after supper and found Emilie sitting in the high-backed chair, with the blue calico he’d admired with Helena in mind pooled in her lap. Quickly she tried to hide it beneath her bottom, wincing when she must have sat on pins. She had guilt written all over her flushed face as she sat straighter.

  “I thought everyone had gone to bed,” she said in an urgent voice.

  Carrigan strode into the room with its two sugan-covered sofas, wooden rocker, fireplace, and large picture window with the muslin curtains drawn. The light in the sitting room was the best in the house for reading or doing work requiring a fine eye. A high wheel—which was in actuality an old wagon sprocket—was anchored to the ceiling by several lengths of chain, and seven kerosene lamps could be lit at the same time. Emilie had four going, and the brightness was beneficial for using a needle and thread.

  “I left my book in here,” he replied. Carrigan had been voraciously reading ever since the lake, trying to occupy himself at bedtime with thoughts other than Helena. The intimacy that he and Helena had shared was left behind on the sandy shores. Not since the eve of their last night out had they made love.

  It wasn’t as if Carrigan didn’t want to sleep in his wife’s bed. There had been no invitation. And this was her house. Her domain. Her rules governed the space. He knew she was sensitive about Emilie knowing what went on between a man and a woman, but he doubted Emilie was ignorant.

  Though he desired Helena, he couldn’t afford to leave in love with her. Nor could he ask Helena to come with him. What could he offer her? Helena’s plan for him to raise horses so no one would question their separate living arrangements had a major flaw. She hadn’t considered the price for the horses’ heads. He couldn’t exactly sell his wife stock and expect her to live with him on the money she paid. That wouldn’t be supporting her—that would be her supporting them. He could never take money from her again.

  Besides, her place was here. She belonged. She fit in. He didn’t. He felt caged in and shackled. There were days when he would stare beyond the stockade gates to the range of grasses that pressed downward toward the other side of the valley. He’d be halfway to saddling Boomerang for a ride when he realized he couldn’t go. There were too many obligations for him to take off when he wanted. He was trapped.

  Mostly, Helena worked by his side. She never complained about a nasty job, nor did she shy away from the domestic duties that went with the house. Each day he was falling . . . falling away from his resolve and his reason for being with her. And that was to help without becoming involved. Merely give her his name and be there for her in case she needed him to fight for her cause. That was all well and good, but it was killing him to be so close to her, yet feel as if they were miles apart.

  Up at Lake Tahoe, they’d been on his terrain. He’d been comfortable and at ease. And he sensed Helena had been, too. For the first time, she’d let her guard down and taken what her body needed. But here, she’d pinned her hair up and was put in proper order once again. While she was at home, in her house and surroundings, she’d returned to her former self. Wary, cautious, afraid to get too close to him.

  “Aren’t you going to get your book?” Emilie asked, her face a grimace of pain as she shifted in the chair.

  “In a minute.” Carrigan had lost track of how long he’d stood there, his thoughts collecting inside his head. Before he picked up the volume, he sat on the edge of a sofa, his hands clasped between his knees. “I wanted you to know that when I made the arrangement with your sister for the parcel you shared, I didn’t know you then. I didn’t care whose land it was. I just wanted a piece of it to call my own.” His knit fingers dangled together. “Still do. A deal is a deal, so I’m going to take it. But I didn’t want you thinking I enjoy stealing it from you.”

  Emilie’s eyes were wide and contemplative. “I never thought you were stealing it. My sister gave the parcel to you. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Well, it’s good grounds to hate my guts.”

  She adjusted the wad of fabric at her hip. “I don’t hate you . . . I just . . .” Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t hate you.”

  Carrigan nodded, passing on the subject for another. “Hold it up to your chin. Let me see.”

  “S-See what?” she stammered.

  “What you’re sewing.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s a dress, Emilie. Let me see it.”

  Hesitantly she lifted her thigh and removed the bunch of calico. With slow hands, she shook out the garment and put the bodice next to hers.

  “Very lovely. And very mature.”

  “Th-Thank you.”

  “I’m sure Thomas will appreciate you in it at the Candy Dance.”

  “Why, I’m not going,” she replied all too quickly.

  “Of course you are. That’s why you’re sewing this dress in secret.” Carrigan rose, taking the book with him that had been on the sofa cushion. “But you should be more careful. I could have been Helena.”

  “You won’t tell . . . will you?” Emilie’s glossy braids picked up fragments of the light, making the dual strands shimmer like ripe wheat.

  “No.” Carrigan stood in the doorway. “Because there won’t be any need to keep it a secret. You’ll go to that dance. Even if I have to take Helena there myself.”

  “You’d . . . stick up for me?”

  “You’re Helena’s sister. And when I married her, you became my sister.” Then he left before she could get sentimental on him.

  As Carrigan climbed the stairs, he forced himself to put Helena and her sister from his head. At least for a little while. He had other things to deal with besides the Express. His mind naturally drifted to Seaton Hanrahan. Each time Carrigan went through town, he kept on looking for the man. Carrigan checked the Metropolitan Saloon every now and then. Taking calculated walks through the streets, he searched for a high-crowned black hat with snakeskin trimming. But congestion on the streets was thicker than axle grease, as the mountains had thawed enough so packtrains could pass through. The avenues were glutted with animals and wagons, making it difficult for him to conduct a thorough search.

  Carrigan entered his room, read for a while, and was able to go to sleep after shoving Obsi off the bed. Into a sleep deep eno
ugh that his reaction was somewhat delayed, and the pop-pop didn’t immediately register. But when it did, he was up and out of that bed with his Walker gripped in his hand.

  Pop-pop!

  Christ all Jesus, the noise was gunshots coming from the kitchen. With his Colt trained on the hallway, he met Helena and Emilie. It was a good thing he’d decided to sleep in his long underwear tonight due to the cold, because he wouldn’t have had the foresight to dress before bolting out of his room. In the dim glow of a flickering wall lamp, the women huddled in their nightgowns, clearly frightened by the unknown attacker.

  “Oh dear Lord, is it Indians?” Helena whispered, her hand at her throat. She held Emilie close.

  “Don’t know,” Carrigan hissed. “Get back into your rooms and don’t come out unless I tell you. Obsi, stay. Guard.”

  The black dog sat in the hallway, his hackles raised and teeth bared.

  Carrigan took the stairs, cursing when the third riser from the bottom groaned from his weight. The gunfire had stopped, but he hadn’t heard any doors open to let an intruder out or in, nor glass breaking to signify any windows had been broken.

  His arm raised and eyes adjusting to the shadows, Carrigan took the narrow hall that led to the kitchen. He was barefoot, his steps next to silent as he descended on the dark room.

  Pressing his back against the interior wall, he yelled, “Drop your gun!” Then with one hand, he reached into the box of matches Ignacia kept on the stove and scratched the tip of one into a flame. The match gave off enough light that Carrigan could see he was in an empty room. Pushing off from the wall, he went to the back door and checked the latch. It was undisturbed and pulled in for the night.

  The flame burned his fingers, and he quickly lit a lamp before blowing the match out. There was a sizzle-sizzle sound coming from the sideboard by the dry sink. Glass shards were littered on the counter and floor on the rug the cook kept in front of the sink.