Crossings (34 page)

“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 enough 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.

“Oh, hell,” Carrigan muttered. Then louder, “It's safe to come down.”

In a moment the sisters appeared in the doorway, their matching blue eyes like delft saucers. Obsi stood between them.

Carrigan gestured to the counter. “Helena, your damn bottle of starter yeast exploded.”

“What . . . ?” Helena moved closer, Emilie's hand in hers. When she saw what had happened, her mouth fell open.

Emilie began to laugh. “Lena! Why, you had us all petrified!”

The sizzle was the yeast running out of what remained of the bottle.

“And I was going to make bread tomorrow,” Helena declared, her hand over her heart.

Carrigan put his gun down and picked up the prominent pieces of glass before he stepped on one. “You ladies ought not be in here without shoes on.”

Emilie laid her hand on Helena's shoulder, her eyes shining in merriment. “This is the first time this has ever happened. What will Ignacia say when she sees what a mess you've made in her kitchen?”

“She won't see,” Helena said, sniffing and reaching for the broom. “I'm going to clean it up so she can't find out. You go on back to bed, Emilie. The excitement's over.”

Emilie gave Carrigan a light smile, then took off down the hall, her soft laugh filling the house.

Obsi went to the door and wanted to be let out for a while. Carrigan obliged, then faced Helena.

“I can't believe this,” she said in an agitated tone. “Of all the things to happen.” She took a step forward, but didn't get far. The starter yeast made a great hissing sound and spattered on a big gust of warm air. In a quick inventory, Carrigan saw that it was everywhere. Even on her nightgown and down the front of his underwear.

With her hair braided and falling down her back, her mouth open with astonishment, and despite her face spotted with doughy dots, Helena looked beautiful to him. Her gown was white as sugar, and just as sweet. Helena glanced at herself, brows furrowing while she inspected the speckles of gooey yeast that covered her. When she lifted her eyes to Carrigan, he met her gaze with a wry smile of his own.

“I'm . . . sorry,” she said without much of a straight face. “This is terrible. . . .” Then she began laughing. Her voice, like sunshine, brought daylight into the room. He joined her, laughing deeply. It had been years since he'd given himself over to a good laugh.

Before long, Helena was tipsy with laughter, shaking her head and saying she had to clean it up before the rooster's first crow. “I've got to get a cloth,” she said in between wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Ignacia will have my hide if she sees what I've done.”

Helena opened one of the cupboards and withdrew a stack of towels. “You may admonish me now or later for what I have to ask, but could you please go outside and pump some water?”

“It's cold out there.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And I'm barefoot.”

“I'm aware of that. But you'll get the water for me?”

Carrigan shifted his weight off one hip. “I'll get it, but it's going to cost you.” Before she could ask him what, he'd grabbed the bucket off the worktable and slipped outside. Dashing across the frigid ground to quickly prime the pump and fill the bucket, he ran back before his feet could get too numb. Once inside, he fended off the brittle cold and set the bucket down.

“Where do you want to start?”

“You'll help?”

“I'm awake. Why not?”

“I . . . I appreciate the offer. We'll start with ourselves.” She wiped off her face, and as much of the sticky mess as she could from her nightgown. He did likewise, then they began on the room.

After numerous dunks into the water and wiping down walls, cupboards, the stove plates and pipe, and even taking the curtains from the rod and rinsing them as well, the place was cleaner than it had been before the yeast detonated.

Helena squeezed her cloth out and set it on the counter with the others. “She'll never know,” she said on an exhausted sigh, crossing her arms beneath her breasts—an innocent gesture that pulled at his attention.

“Time to pay up,” he reminded while enfolding her in the width of his arms. “You can either do me a favor or give me a kiss.” He brought his mouth close to hers. “But I'll warn you now, I want them both.”

Helena felt soft and yielding, her body warm next to his. Her chin tilted, the light in her gaze reflections of the lamp that burned behind him. “What kind of favor can I do for you?”

“Then you won't give me the kiss?”

Her smile was soulful. With eyes half-obscured by
the thick lashes of her lowered lids, she whispered, “Oh, Jake, you know I want to give you the kiss . . . for nothing.”

The beat of his pulse a hot rhythm, he could only focus on her mouth when replying. “Then kiss me. Now.”

She brought herself onto tiptoes. Lithe arms lifted over his shoulders, hands locked behind his neck, and her open mouth touched his with tantalizing persuasion. His fingers wove into the silky hair at the back of her head, and he thought it a waste she'd bound the glorious length from his exploring hands. Her hair was too pretty to plait, even at night.

Carrigan wanted her. There was no lying about that. It was desire, pure and simple. She'd been a responsive and gratifying lover, and she was his wife. No amount of convincing could talk him out of pushing her back on her feet. This was right. It felt right. Her kiss was sultry, invading his every sense.

His fingers tightened their hold in her hair as he kept her slender body to his with a hand moving down her back to press her pelvis closer. The scent of her, heated from passion, filled his head with a hundred poetic verses he'd read. Yet he could not quote a single one of them.

Her knees buckled, and he claimed her kiss with one of his own. An anxious, openmouthed kiss that had him thinking with his heart instead of reason. He was willing to take her on the kitchen table. Breaking the kiss, he thought it only fair to tell her what the favor was before he took things too far and she accused him of using her.

Passion-filled blue eyes gazed up at him while a lush mouth parted.

“I think you should know what I'd like you to indulge me in before we decide what we're going to do next.”

Through her quickened breath, she asked, “What is it?”

“Let Emilie go to the dance.”

The ardent expression on her face dimmed.

“Let her go, Lena. Let her go.” He kissed her, hoping to recapture the languid gaze in her eyes. “I'll even go, too. We'll watch her, together, and make sure she's all right.”

Helena's voice was a vibration against his lips. “You'd do that for my sister? For me?”

“Yes, I would.”

Her lips nuzzled his. He pulled back a little to peer down at her. “What do you say? Let her go. . . . You'll have to sooner or later. Do it now, before it's too late.”

She whimpered over the loss of his mouth. “I hope I'll never regret changing my mind.” He gave her a soft kiss, her last words dying on his lips. “She can go.”

Carrigan lifted her in his arms and spun her in a circle. Helena buried her face in his neck, kissing him in the curve and holding on to him as if she'd die if he let her go. He felt the same way, clinging to the satisfaction she gave him with a smile, a look, a laugh.

Urging her closer with a fervent kiss, he nibbled and bit the flesh of her lower lip with playful, thorough kisses. He would have bent her over the table, lifted her gown and taken what he so craved, but Helena had to say where. He didn't want to risk Emilie discovering them should she return downstairs. She was a young girl, and such an impression as the image of lovemaking was best left for her wedding night.

Helena's moist whisper raised the flesh on his arms. “We can't go upstairs. . . . Emilie might hear.”

“Where do you want to go?”

Her forehead creased, then she took his hand while a half smile touched her mouth. “Would you think me debauched if I suggested the pantry?”

“Not at all.”

She took his hand and they hid themselves in a
muted world of semidarkness behind the curtain of worn blankets. The cool fragrance of stored apples, spices, and the lingering tartness of preserves seeping through wax coverings filled the small space.

In this tiny cubicle of concealment, between feverish kisses, Carrigan undid the buttons on his drawers. Then he lifted her into his arms, kissing her soundly and without breath.

“Lift your hem and put your legs around my hips,” he said in a ragged voice. “Hold on to me.”

She did so, the outline of her breasts through the fabric of her nightgown searing into his partially covered chest. He found her wet entrance and plunged deep inside of her. His strong fingers cupped her buttocks as he thrust deep and rapid, her own body squirming against him in wild abandon. He was so close to climax, he had to slow things down. But when he did, Helena was digging the blunt ends of her fingers into his back.

“Don't stop.”

His eyelids flew closed, and he let the release come when he felt her pulsating next to him. They clung to each other, their breathes mingled and the smells of dried fruits and herbs filling their lungs. The sex and been totally uninhibited, rapturous and satisfying.

With a tender kiss to his wife's mouth, Carrigan was reluctant to let her go. Now . . . and forever.

*  *  *

The Saturday of the dance was a beautiful spring day with a mild, pleasing temperature in the air, and an exquisite azure sky with clouds rolling calmly past a brilliant sun. Helena had spent her morning helping Emilie in the store, and her afternoon mucking the stables and taking stock of the root cellar. By the time the supper bell rang, she was a sight. Dirty from head to toe and in no condition to sit at a table. Washing up as best as she could from the rain barrel, she joined the others.

Jake didn't show up for the light meal. Earlier in the
day, she'd seen him mending one of the western fences. He'd had to go to the lumberyard for supplies and returned a while ago. But when she'd come into the house, she hadn't seen him in the far corner anymore.

“Has anyone seen Jake?” she asked nonchalantly.

“He said he had to go to his cabin for a few things,” Eliazer supplied. “He'll be back before the dance.”

Helena nodded, thoughtfully chewing a bite of hominy cake but wondering just the same. Jake didn't like crowds or town functions. Was he reconsidering putting in an appearance? She doubted that, as they'd just been together at sunrise out in the corncrib shed. Ever since the night in the pantry, they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other. Secret rendezvous were daily. Kisses were stolen at every private opportunity, and a touch of hands whenever possible. Hours in each other's arms were spent beneath midnight stars or the scarlet mist of a sun just rising over the horizon.