Crossings (43 page)

“W
hat are you doing?” Bayard demanded.

Helena wouldn't give him an answer. He wasn't owed one. Not when he was in possession of something that he should have given her long ago. He'd known about the photograph. She'd told him it had been in the cash box. That the picture had ended up in his drawer without his knowledge was highly unlikely. That he hadn't come to her with the evidence made him very suspect. Only someone who was guilty of something would have kept this from her.

When she found her voice, the words rushed past her lips. “How did you get this?”

Bayard stepped around the desk and attempted to pull the picture from her fingers. Jerking her arm back, she wouldn't let him have it.

“Helena, don't play games with me.”

“You've been the one playing them with me.” She retreated from his reach and stood a good distance away from the desk. “I want to know why you have my picture. Where is the other part of it?”

Bayard's expression went flat. “I don't have the other part.”

“Why do you have any of it at all?”

“I came upon the daguerreotype by accident and saw no reason to tell you.” Bayard sat down, seemingly no longer affected by her discovery. That he could be so blunt with his answer galled her. He knew how much the picture meant to her and Emilie. It was the last likeness taken of her parents. There was no photographer in Genoa, so a more recent photo had never been taken. “Where is the other part?” she repeated firmly.

“I told you, I don't have it.”

“How did you get this by accident?” Her tone was dark, an edge of hostility to it that she couldn't suppress. He was toying with her, not fully giving her what she asked. She would not be appeased by little crumbs and excuses. The whole answer was all she would accept. “How? You know who killed my father. Was it you?”

Bayard inhaled, knit his fingers together, and stared toward the window where sunlight streamed through the portieres that were pulled back by silken cords. “I did not kill him, and that is the truth.”

“Would you swear it under oath?” she shot back.

“I would swear it to you.”

To Helena, that now meant nothing. “If you didn't kill my father, who did?”

“I don't know.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not.” A vein at his temple visibly pulsed with the ire he had suddenly checked. “If I had known who murdered August, I would have apprehended him and sentenced him to death. But I don't know.” He put the Kinsey book away and closed the drawer, this time without attempting to lock it. “I found the photograph in the alley behind Main Street. It was in a pile of rubbish, along with the cash box minus the money.
The picture was damaged, and only your side was salvageable. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to upset you. You were grieving for August, and I felt that your seeing the ruined picture would serve no purpose other than causing you further duress.”

Helena gazed at the film paper in her hand. If the daguerreotype had been blemished, why wasn't all of it ruined? This section looked fine. There were no dirt smudges, no residues of garbage, and no scratches on the surface. It looked as if someone had taken the original and neatly cut a third of it cleanly away from the rest.

Her mind worked to put the pieces together. It wasn't adding up. Something was wrong. There was a lie. A collection of lie upon lie, until nothing was distinguishable. There was nothing she could pinpoint. She had to talk to Jake. To tell him what she feared. That Bayard was somehow involved with her father's death. That perhaps he had not pulled the trigger, but had initiated the killing. That was Jake's theory . . . that whoever was responsible for letting her horses out was working for someone. A higher power. A man of influence. Bayard fit the mold without a doubt. He'd gotten the photograph from the killer. A sick memento to be kept in his drawer under lock and key.

She was in a sea of confusion, one word repeating itself in her brain: Why? Why had Bayard felt it necessary to have such a brutal crime committed? Why had he wanted to hurt her? Why did he want her picture?

“I have to go,” she murmured, suddenly quite afraid and wanting to be away from Bayard. She wanted to be safe at the station with Emilie. And be with Jake. He'd have to be there by now. She wanted to be in the haven of his arms so badly, she could cry.

“No,” came Bayard's denial.

Helena began walking, not listening. “I have to go.”

“You will not!” Bayard was out of the chair and painfully gripped her arm before she'd taken three steps. “Helena, don't leave me. Please, I have to talk to you.”

“I don't want to. . . .” she moaned as his fingers constricted around her sensitive muscles.

“You have to. And you will.” Bayard's eyes were angry orbs of gray. “You need to hear how I feel about you. Once you understand, you'll know that you can't possibly stay married to Carrigan. It was a mistake, and I forgive you for it.”

“Forgive me?” she whispered. “I have done nothing for you to forgive. How dare you say such a thing?”

“Because I love you,” he declared, but the fierceness of his confession had no influence on her. She didn't care how he felt. She wanted to get away from him. “I have from the minute I first saw you. You should have been my wife, and you would have been if you hadn't run to Carrigan.” Bayard's brows were black slashes of fury. “You were supposed to run to me! To me!”

Helena couldn't swallow. She couldn't move. Amid all the confusion, there came a dawning so powerful, she knew that it was the one absolute truth. “You had my father killed so I would be alone and turn to you for help . . . just like I had on other occasions.”

“I didn't have him killed!” He shook her just a little. “Stop saying that I did.”

She didn't believe him. His denial was too vehement, his secrecy about the photograph not credible. Given a change in their positions, she would have gone to him with the ruined daguerreotype and handed it to him in whatever condition she'd found it in, knowing how much it would have meant to him. But Bayard hadn't seen things like that because he was hiding something.

A darkness threatened to engulf Helena. She had never fainted in her life, but the overwhelming need
to surrender to oblivion so she could escape the man who held her pulled strong. The need to be free, in whatever way possible, had a hold on her just as surely as Bayard did.

“If you love me, let me go,” she asked once more, her words even and from the heart. If she could appeal to his distorted infatuation for her, maybe he would release her.

“I cannot.” He shook his head. “Not now . . . not ever. I love you too much.”

A despair welled in her so great, she knew instantly how her mother had felt when she'd sunk into the endless blades of prairie grass. Hopeless . . . and alone.

*  *  *

Just after nine o'clock, Carrigan reined his lathered horse in to the stockade and jumped down from Boomerang as Obsi's bark signaled his arrival. The dog ran toward him, tail vigorously wagging while he jumped to Carrigan's thigh for a pat on the head. The smells of breakfast were left over in the yard as he walked into the stable, hoping to find Helena and tell her to stay clear of Kimball until he could have charges of conspiracy for murder brought against the judge. Carrigan knew now that Bayard had been trying to drive a wedge between them from the start. He'd almost succeeded. Carrigan had doubted himself and the strength of his relationship with Helena. But no more.

Carrigan hadn't been able to avenge Jenny and had to reconcile himself to the fact that he would never find the men responsible for her pain. That part of his past was like dust blowing in the desert. Shifted and gone. But he could help Helena. Despite how things stood between them, he was going to do everything in his power to keep her safe from Bayard Kimball's clutches. He'd make sure the judge paid for his criminal actions. Kimball was nothing short of a murderer himself for having given the order to kill
August Gray. Carrigan intended on making everyone in Genoa see that they'd been duped by a fancy suit of clothes. Given his horrendous night, Carrigan had almost lost that chance altogether.

He'd had one hell of a time explaining the circumstances of Hanrahan's death to the vigilante committee. Despite the bartender, Remie, and the card-players backing his story that Hanrahan had been itching for a fight, he'd still had to convince the committee that he'd acted in self-defense. That if he hadn't fired first, it would have been Seaton they were talking to instead of him. An hour after sunup, the six men had finally relented and said that they'd never liked Hanrahan anyway. That he'd been on the verge of being run out of town because of his card-playing practices. Everyone knew he was a cheat, but thus far, no one had been able to catch him at it.

The undertaker had intruded on Carrigan's interrogation, which had taken place in one of the members' parlors, and informed the group that when he'd examined Seaton's body, he'd found several unaccountable cards on his person. Hearing that, the committee huddled together, and when they broke up, told Carrigan he could ride out of Carson, but stay clear of it in the future. The news of Seaton's double-dealing had cinched Carrigan's freedom, and he'd ridden like the wind to get back to Genoa. And Helena.

The nickers of horses sounded on Carrigan's entrance into the stables. He found Eliazer and immediately addressed him.

“Where's Helena?”

Eliazer turned from the work bench. “She's not in here.” The stock tender's face brightened. “But she will be glad to see you have safely returned. She didn't sleep all night worrying over you and Thomas.”

“How is Thomas?”

“Better,” Eliazer said. “He'll recover.”

“Good to hear that. I have to see Helena right away.
Do you think you could cool my horse?” Carrigan asked as he headed toward the doors.

“I'll take care of him.”

“Thanks.”

Carrigan ran across the yard and vaulted for the back steps, Obsi on his heels. He swung the door open and entered the kitchen, startling Ignacia, who was at the dry sink washing the dishes.

Rather than greet her, he blurted, “Where's Helena?”

Ignacia put a thin hand to her meager bosom. “Why, she's not here. Mr. Carrigan, my prayers have been answered. I asked God for your safe return.”

Though he appreciated the woman's concern, he couldn't stay and reassure her he was all right. “Where is she?”

“She went to Judge Kimball's office.”

“Jesus,” he swore. “How long ago?”

“About a half hour. Why? Is something wrong?”

Yelling at Obsi to stay, Carrigan was halfway down the hall.

*  *  *

Carrigan ran into J. H. Lewis on the courthouse steps. His ear was pressed to the door's window. When he saw Carrigan, he straightened with a jump. Carrigan practically yanked him by the collar, leading him quietly away from the door.

“What are you doing?”

The eyes behind the man's glasses were wide. “I . . .”

“Is my wife in there?”

“Yes.” Lewis swallowed. “With the judge.”

“Why are you listening?”

“Because I was worried about her.”

“You weren't before,” Carrigan hissed.

“That was then. Now we've come to realize that Mrs. Carrigan isn't such a bad woman.”

Carrigan frowned.

“You see . . . the judge made us think that she'd be bad for Genoa; that's why me and Wyatt denied her the service. But now . . . well, I don't trust the judge,” Lewis whispered as if Kimball was going to come out at any second. “I was at the door earlier, and he and Mrs. Carrigan were having a talk. . . . Judge Kimball . . . I don't know . . . there was something in his tone when he came downstairs with the forms for the building permits. He's doing something wrong. . . . I can't say what.”

Carrigan shoved the man aside. “He is doing something wrong. He had August Gray murdered.”

Mr. Lewis's Adam's apple bobbed. “Dear God.”

“Go get a group of men together and get them back here.”

J. H. Lewis nodded and dashed down the steps, barely making a noise.

The faded window shade on the door to the courthouse was drawn, but Carrigan could hear voices inside. Bayard's and Helena's. The judge was doing most of the talking. Through the muffling pane of glass, Kimball's tone was distorted but appeared to be aggressive.

Without knocking, Carrigan let himself in. When he saw that Helena was captured in the judge's hold, his hand went reflexively to his gun as he strode heavily on his heels.

“Take your hands off my wife.”

Bayard didn't move an inch. Undaunted, he remained exactly how he stood. With two hands on Helena's shoulders, with his face close to hers, yet turned in Carrigan's direction.

Carrigan automatically withdrew the revolver when his direction went unheeded. “I said to remove your hands from my wife, Kimball.”

The judge glanced slowly at Helena, then at Carrigan, before stepping away from her. His expression was indolent, as if he had no concern for his
welfare. As soon as Helena was free, she ran to Carrigan. He put his arm around her, her face pressing into the front of his shirt.

Her soft and terrified voice vibrated against his chest as she spoke into the fabric. “He has my picture, Jake. The one that was in our cash box. I'm sure he had my father killed.”

The deadly threat of the Walker's steady barrel trained on Kimball never wavered as Carrigan replied, “He did.”

Helena's face lifted to his. “How do you know?”

“Seaton Hanrahan told me.”

Kimball snorted. “The man's a liar.”

“The man is dead,” Carrigan said in a level voice.

“Good riddance,” was Bayard's only comment.