Crossings (19 page)

“Miss Lena, Judge Kimball was knocking on the store window. He says he needs to speak with you. I let him in.”

Putting her hand on her brow, Helena waved Ignacia off. “I can't talk to him now.”

“He said it was urgent.”

Raising her chin, Helena choked on her sigh.

Emilie set her napkin on her plate. “What land was Carrigan talking about, Lena?”

“I can't go into that at the moment, Emilie. I have more pressing things on my mind.” Helena left the kitchen and went to the store, her nerves unraveling. What was she going to do? No horses meant she'd have to shut the station down. Temporarily. Because
she'd get her old horses back, or she'd get new ones. There was no way she was quitting. But in the meantime, she'd have to send a message to Friday's station and the Carson City station, telling the masters their riders were going to need to keep the same horses through Genoa. The loss in revenue was going to gum up her finances worse than they already were.

“Judge Kimball,” Helena greeted quickly as she went behind the counter. “I don't mean to be rude, but I've got a problem that needs my immediate attention.”

Bayard doffed his hat. “I can guess what it is.”

“Can you?” She was in no mood for games, her thoughts tripping over one another to oversee everything that needed to be done.

“Your horses have disappeared.”

Their eyes met as surprise ran through Helena. “How do you know about my horses?”

“I saw who let them out.”

Her stomach clenched tight. She wanted to know the answer, and she didn't. “Who?”

“Carrigan.”

Helena had to grip the counter for support, her worst fears confirmed. “You saw him? When?”

“Last night when I was leaving the saloon. I saw a figure herding them through the gates.”

“Why didn't you wake me?” she blurted.

“I was rather inebriated and in no condition to knock on your door.”

Welcome doubts set upon her. “If you were so drunk, how can you be sure it was Carrigan you saw?”

“He was the same height. The same build. There are no other men in Genoa who have his composition.” Bayard's expression looked truly regretful. “I'm sorry. The horses fled so quickly that even if I'd come to you right away, you couldn't have traveled at night to round them up.”

Helena was numb with increasing shock.

“Horse thievery is a hanging offense, Helena,”
Bayard informed her gravely. “I could take him into custody right now.”

“No.” An oddly primitive warning sounded in her brain. She didn't want Carrigan dead—even if he did steal her horses. There had to be an explanation. Carrigan denied his guilt, but at the same time, Bayard had identified him. She'd known and trusted Bayard for years. He wouldn't lie to her.

“Thank you, Bayard,” Helena said woodenly. She went to the door and unlocked it. “I appreciate you telling me. But I'll handle the matter on my own.”

Bayard glared at her as if she'd lost her mind. “Helena, you don't realize what an error you're making. The man has committed a serious crime. He should be hanged. You need to be safeguarded from him.”

Wanting desperately to believe Bayard could be mistaken, Helena put off making any rash judgments. “I don't want to make a decision I'll regret later.” She opened the door. “I need some time to think things through. But I really do need to see about getting my horses back before it's too late.”

Bayard was barely on the boardwalk when she closed and locked the door behind him. Helena picked up her skirts and sprinted up the stairs. She found Carrigan in his room, packing his satchel.

“I want to make one thing clear up front,” she said, her breath rapid. “I'm not a woman who craves heroics. In fact, I prefer my life to be quiet and orderly. I like having a routine that I go through each day, knowing what's expected of me from sunrise to sundown. But in this instance, I'm compelled to leave the norm. I have no choice.” She lifted her shoulders. “I'm going with you.”

“The hell you are.”

“I am. I need those horses back the quickest way possible. Two riders would do the job faster.”

“Send Eliazer with me.”

“Even if he could tolerate being in the saddle, I
wouldn't let him go. I can't leave my sister here without a man's protection. Eliazer stays.”

Carrigan stared Helena down, but she was unflinching.

“I'm not a physically breakable woman. I can handle a horse a lot better than I handle a buckboard.”

“You don't trust me to go alone.”

She wouldn't lie to him. Despite the probability he had lied to her. “Not entirely, no.”

Tossing a pair of trousers into his satchel, he snorted, “At least you're honest about it.”

“I can be honest in a pinch.”

“So can I.” His green eyes bored into her. “I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. You want to go, be ready.”

9

C
arrigan held a light rein on Boomerang as he steered the horse through the two-foot-high sagebrush. Keeping as lax a hold on his poor disposition was something he had to constantly remind himself to do. Helena making it clear she thought of him as a suspect in the emancipation of her horses had put him in a foul mood he couldn't shrug off.

He could feel her blue eyes on him. Steadily. Through the remote ramparts, ribs, and gorges. Her unwavering gaze harassed his irritable side. He was close to yanking her out of the saddle and shaking some common sense into her. She'd undermined his integrity. The dark and treacherous reputation she thought he had was a figment of her imagination. Character was something that lived inside him, and he wasn't the sort of man who double-dealed. At least not without just cause. And in this case, there was no reason for him to commit the crime.

If she put as much energy into objectively piecing together the whys for the horses' disappearance, she wouldn't be stewing over his possible involvement.
Somebody apparently wanted to shut her down other than the obvious two, Lewis and Wyatt, who had been taken care of without further confrontations. There was someone else. An unseen party. Her father's death had been no random robbery shooting. Carrigan had come to that conclusion not an hour out of town. The logical choice for a suspect would be a person who could benefit by Helena not having the Express station. But Carrigan knew from past experiences, logical choices were never logical. If answers were simple, questions wouldn't spring up.

Obsi ran ahead, a blur of black through the drab scrub. Boomerang would have spooked if he were a young green-broke with unpredictability still in him. But the strawberry roan had seasoned and wasn't quite as reckless as he'd been four years ago.

Lifting his nose, Obsi read the scent messages in the air—most notably the gray squirrel clinging to the side of a pine and noisily scolding their intrusion. The dog snorted, as if trying to discern food, friend, or foe. Low on his paws, Obsi took off for the upcoming ridge, apparently deciding the squirrel wasn't worth his trouble.

Bunchgrass grew between the crevices of rock and sprouted through sand, while greasewood gave way to a dense growth of dry manzanita chaparral. Carrigan knew this land well, having hunted not only game, but horses, in the varying terrain.

“Are you sure you're headed in the right direction?” Helena asked. “We've been on this trail for over an hour with no signs of my horses.”

Carrigan glanced behind him. “You want to lead this search?”

Sitting astride Traveler, Helena met his gaze with one just as imposing as his. “You know I don't have the knowledge.”

“Then quit bothering me.” Carrigan faced forward, his legs hugging Boomerang's girth snugger than he should have. He was still trying to register the significance
behind the Sharps rifle Helena had housed in a scabbard over her pommel. Had she brought the weapon to threaten him? If so, he could tell her she was in serious trouble. A gun barrel aimed at him would only make him want to avenge himself. Woman or not. He'd tussle her to the ground if she so much as lifted that Sharps his way.

The wind rose with the altitude. Carrigan's hat shaded his eyes, the wide brim a welcome respite against a sun he'd been looking sideways into for nearly a year. Given the strain in his and Helena's supposedly cut-and-dried relationship, he hated to admit he would have been half-blind by the sunlight without the hat. Surveying the slide damage to the north where an unsightly scar upon the mountain's front left a vast, treeless patch, he noted the landmark hadn't been there the last time he'd come up this way.

Conversation between them ceased as the high, mountainous country required a rider's full concentration. Carrigan was glad for the quiet to give his thoughts over to reflections other than the woman whose stare into his back was becoming a real grievance on his part. The sun-bright summit reminded him of his boyhood. Of the high hill in Red Springs that he and his brothers climbed to the top of to mingle with the sky.

Jesus, he'd been eight or so. It was the year his mother inherited some horses from a relative of hers. His father sold most of them off to support his liquor habit, and his poor business sense left the family at the mercy of creditors. They'd had to open their small house up for boarders. His mother never lived down the shame of it.

Willie, Robert, and he used to sneak off when the old man got roaring drunk and was in a mind to unleash his belt on their backsides. On the property, there was a small creek to play in with cutbanks some fifteen feet deep. They would escape to its shore and tie hooks to twine and harpoon a piece of salt pork to
catch crawfish. They'd build up a good fire, cook and eat the tails. The other hunting skills they'd developed were gathering the mourning doves that didn't nest very high. Pilfering the fat squabs just about to leave the nest was as easy as throwing a two-day calf.

The three of them had a collection of small reptiles and animal skulls decorating the room they shared. Their sister, Sarah, would raise holy hell when they took a mind to tease her by putting rodent bones beneath her pillow.

But all that was before the Mexican War had gotten in the way of good times, and he'd moved on afterward to pursue the other avenues he could take to mold himself into a man. In his absence, death had taken both his brothers.

The heartsick chord that suddenly struck Carrigan was unexpected. Lost years of his youth should have been something he accepted by now. Childhood days behind him. What was gone . . . was gone.

Carrigan began searching for signs when he reached an overhanging, wall-like ridge of rock that projected from the earth. It had been here he'd first found traces of the herd from which most of Helena's stock came.

“Do you see something?” Helena's hopeful query went wasted on him.

Ignoring her, Carrigan dismounted and walked a small area until he found horseshoe imprints in the soft-rock ground. No wild band would have been shod. Crouching down, he ran his fingertips over a clean print. “Which one's your lead mare?”

“Columbiana.”

“She's been here.” The deeper depth and defined impression of the shoe said it was new iron. Carrigan stood and gazed at Helena. “But the track isn't fresh. Your horses have gone farther than I wanted.”

Helena met his eyes, her face protected by the brim of a straw bonnet. She didn't employ a sidesaddle as he would have guessed. But Helena was no ordinary woman. When she had an objective, she took the most
prudent course to achieve her goal. A lady's saddle would have slowed her down. But ever the lady, she hadn't donned britches.

She straddled the horse, the fullness of her dark-checked skirt bunched on Traveler's bay rump without the hindrance of a wooden hoop. Her slim legs were exposed only to her knees where the weave of her black stockings, and just barely a hint of white petticoat, was available for his view. Too bad it wasn't more. But like him, she'd forgone a heavy coat. A short cape covered her arms and shoulders, with just enough of her enticing form on display to distract him.