Sweet Boundless Read online

  He looked around the town, up the street and down, at all the new and existing businesses. Most had nothing to offer Carina—saloons, gambling dens, houses of ill repute—but there were enough others, including a new bookstore, which might prove costly unless he established some ground rules. And he knew how well Carina took direction. Blowing his breath through his lips, he headed for Mae’s.

  Carina pulled the long crusty loaves from Mae’s oven. She’d used Mae’s flour, salt, and yeast, a spoonful of honey fresh from the comb, and olive oil from her own dwindling supply. That and a handful of herbs was all she had left of the treasure Quillan had bought from the Italian market in Fairplay.

  It was enough to make the bread he liked drizzled with oil and sprinkled with basil and salt. But she had nothing with which to make the cannelloni or the ravioli, unless—hadn’t he said he’d brought eggs? She could dice Mae’s beef with a pinch of nutmeg for filling, and with the eggs and flour she’d make the pasta dough and cut the ravioli. Without butter and garlic . . .

  Bene. It was the best she could do. Besides, why should she care? What was it to her if Quillan ate well or poorly? But she did care. Especially when he wasn’t near to infuriate her. If only she could find a way . . .

  She set the steaming loaves on the board. The aroma enticed her nostrils, and she breathed it deeply, thinking of home. She had learned how to adjust to the altitude and make the bread as light and crusty as Mamma’s. If she had the right ingredients, she could cook food the men of Crystal would trade their mines for. She smiled at the thought, caressing the end of one loaf. If only she had what she needed.

  Sam bounded toward Quillan as he approached Mae’s back door. Quillan gave the dog a reassuring stroke, let him lick his hands, then patted him lightly. Why did the animal always act as though his very existence depended on Quillan’s affection? Leaving Sam outside the door, Quillan entered Mae’s kitchen, only slightly surprised to find Carina there. But then, the stove in her house was good for little more than warmth. A kettle maybe and a skillet to warm something. Certainly not adequate for the kind of use Carina made of a kitchen.

  Mae went to the corner shelf and stuffed the bills he’d given her into a canister. He saw Carina frown. Did she think he wouldn’t pay her debt? He knew his responsibilities. Mae shuffled to the stove and began slopping beef from one large kettle into a serving pot.

  Quillan crossed to the table where Carina stood over two long crusty loaves, the kind she’d served him before. His mouth watered as he held out the small crate. Not much of a gift for a man to bring his bride, but she took it as though each egg were pure gold.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes met his briefly.

  He didn’t like the way her gaze made his stomach clench up. “You’re welcome.” He sat down on the bench at Mae’s table.

  Near his elbow, Carina set a bowl, and into this she scooped flour. He watched her sprinkle it with salt, then make a well in the center. Her hands made each motion a dance, and he was amazed again by how expressive fingers and palms could be. Her fingers and palms. She lifted one egg from the carton and kissed it.

  Irresistibly, his glance went to her lips. Was she playing a game? Enticing him? She cracked the egg and emptied it into the well, never once looking his way. Then she drizzled in oil and water. His brows rose slightly when she plunged her fingers into the bowl and began working the dough by hand.

  “Do you always do it that way?” He waved at the bowl.

  “How else would I know if the mixture is right?”

  He chewed the side of his lower lip where a crack was starting from the long days in the sun and dust. It wasn’t hard to believe that her hands told her things. They were more than ordinary hands. He watched them work the dough into a pliant sheen, then divide it into two balls.

  She sprinkled the table with flour and rolled one of the balls into a thin sheet. Watching her was like watching a juggler or a musician, someone with a skill beyond that of normal men. She covered the dough with a damp towel and began to mince beef from Mae’s pot. Again with her fingers she sprinkled a brown powdery substance, and he whiffed it but couldn’t name it.

  “What’s that?” He jutted his chin toward the substance.

  “Nutmeg.”

  He recalled her tale of misfortune the first time she cooked with nutmeg. She had told it the first time she cooked for him. He warmed inside, but he resisted it. He wasn’t here to fall prey to her wiles. He looked away, indifferent to what she did next. But when she began to hum, he looked back.

  She had made little mounds of the meat on the first sheet of dough and was laying a second over it all. It looked exactly as though she were tucking them in for the night, and the corner of his mouth twitched with the thought. Once she had it covered, she took a metal circle and pressed it over each mound, cutting them out like biscuits.

  Now he knew what she was making, though the name eluded him. It was the little pillows she’d brought to Brother Paine’s picnic. He scowled. It wasn’t much of a stretch to consider that day the start of it all. If he hadn’t wanted to try her fare, he wouldn’t have gone back for more.

  “Your face is as long as Guiseppe’s mule.”

  He glanced up at her and found the shadow of a smile. So she thought it amusing. He forked his fingers into his hair. “I’m tired. It’s a long road.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  He wanted to say never mind, he wasn’t hungry. But that would be a lie, and the longer he looked at the golden loaves before him, the more he imagined the flavor of it drizzled with oil and basil and salt. She’d taught him that much.

  “What do you call those things?”

  “Ravioli. It won’t be the best without butter or parmigiano or garlic.”

  “You used it all up?”

  She spread her hands. “What do you expect in two months?”

  He tried not to think of the meals he’d missed. It didn’t matter. He could do with a can of something heated over a fire.

  She dropped the ravioli into a pot of boiling water. Now that was something he hadn’t seen before. He would have guessed she baked them. Crossing to the table, she brushed her hair back from her forehead with her sleeve, then took the knife and began to slice the bread. Steam erupted and filled his nose with the wonderful smell.

  His throat worked already. If she wasn’t looking, he’d snatch a piece and stuff it into his mouth whole. She laid the slices of bread onto a plate and drizzled the oil over them. He noticed the bottle was nearly empty. The jar that held the pungent basil was all but empty as well.

  She placed the plate in the center of the table and turned back to the stove. His fingers itched; his mouth watered. But he controlled the urge. No good letting her see his impatience. Gently she strained the ravioli from the boiling water into a bowl. With a sigh, she poured the rest of the oil and the last of the basil over them. She tossed it lightly with a spoon, then set it on the table.

  Mae came in, refilled her pot, and left again, the noise of the men in the other room reason enough for her haste. But Quillan knew he’d have no help from that quarter. She’d find something to occupy her and leave them alone together all evening. Carina sat down, and he reached for a slice of bread.

  “We’ll bless the food and thank God for it.”

  His hand hovered over the plate, then returned to his side. If she wanted to pray, let her.

  “Grazie, Signore, for this bounty. Bless it to our use. Amen.” Her hand made a path from her head to her chest and across each shoulder.

  Quillan narrowed his eyes mockingly. “Is it safe now?”

  “Sì.” She didn’t even blink.

  He snatched a slice of bread and took a bite. Heaven. The most heaven he’d ever know. Carina then spooned ravioli onto his plate. Again the steamy aroma wafted to his nose. She wasn’t playing fair. He cut into one and brought it to his mouth. She was right that it wasn’t as good as the last time, but he chewed it with relish nonetheless.

  “W
hen can you go to Fairplay and get me more?”

  “More?” He knew exactly what she meant.

  “The market there. I need ingredients.” She held a ravioli poised, then plunked it into her mouth.

  He swallowed his own bite. “I don’t recall that working out so well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I ended up in the hole.”

  She waved a hand, dismissing his point. “You don’t know how it’s done.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “How what’s done?”

  “How to buy from an Italian.”

  He set down his fork and leaned back from the table. “Is that so?”

  “Sì. You never pay what he asks.”

  Quillan took the napkin beside his plate and wiped the side of his mouth where he could feel it slick with oil. He haggled every day in his line of work—on the buying end, not the selling. In Crystal he could ask whatever he wanted and folks would pay.

  But it was true that on the occasion she described, he hadn’t haggled. It was all so foreign, the things on her list, the man with his broken English. Quillan had taken whatever the man said Carina would want and paid his price. Now he felt like a fool.

  “How do you know he didn’t ask more than I paid?”

  She laughed. “Not even a truffatore would ask more than you paid.”

  “What’s a truffatore?”

  “A swindler.”

  Quillan placed a whole ravioli into his mouth. It would save him from responding to that one. He savored the flavor. What would it hurt to keep her supplied? If he had to make a show of this marriage, he might at least eat well. He washed down the bite with a swig of coffee.

  “You think you could do better?”

  She smiled a perfect smile, soft lips, white teeth. “What do you think?”

  He thought the old truffatore would melt into the floor. Quillan crowded his plate and folded his hands on the table. “How would you like to buy for yourself?”

  Her breath caught. “Do you mean it?”

  Quillan’s throat tightened at her earnest expression. He hadn’t expected quite such excitement. “If you think you can take the ride.”

  “Didn’t I take it all the way from Denver? Of course I can take the ride. When do we go?”

  He retreated to his bench, angry with himself for suggesting it. If she got tired they’d have to spend the night in Fairplay. But he doubted she’d admit getting tired. “I guess tomorrow.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She grasped his hand a moment, then let it fall and withdrew hers swiftly to her sides.

  It was too late, though. She’d touched him, and his heart hammered his chest. He pushed away from the table.

  She followed with her eyes, two dark pools wreathed with even darker lashes. “Aren’t you going to finish?”

  “I have things to do.” He stood, leaving the food that had so beguiled him, and walked out Mae’s back door. He kicked himself for being vulnerable, for once again letting her lure him with food, and even more than the food, the companionship. For the second time that day, he made for the graveyard.

  He hardly noticed the dog following until it lay down beside the mound, as though seeking its old master’s comfort as well. Cain’s stone still looked new. But then, it took more than two months to weather a stone, even at this altitude. He slumped down beside the grave, feeling the pain of loss as fresh as ever. He looked at the stone.

  CAIN JEREMIAH BRADLEY. 1810–1880. He thought of Cain’s favorite saying. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”

  Did they? Did they, Cain? Can you still believe it wherever you are? He shook his head. No, God didn’t do good to those who loved Him. He sacrificed them, the same as He had His own Son. Quillan sat by the grave until the stars shone in the clear black canopy, then reluctantly stood. He’d have to go home sooner or later.

  Carina had changed into her gown and brushed her hair a hundred strokes as she always did. She’d scoured her teeth diligently, considering each one a small battlefield. She was determined to take each tooth to the grave without surrendering even one to a dentist. She had a candle lit on a crate beside the bed. She hadn’t thought to purchase a lamp, but Quillan had said he’d leave money for such things.

  Quillan. Where had he gone? If he intended to sleep here, he’d better come before she put the chair against the door. Once her head felt the softness of a real pillow and her body sank into a feather mattress, she was not moving again.

  The door opened behind her, and she spun. Quillan came inside and dropped a bedroll to the floor. “Svendsen will have a key for you tomorrow.”

  She nodded. Now that he was inside, the walls had shrunk and it was impossible to breathe normally. Would he take her in his arms as he had before, with no words? Would he kiss her, making the love she felt that much harder to bear? She stood frozen beside the bed.

  Quillan let the dog inside, and it made a quick circle of the room, then returned to him, tail wagging. Quillan rubbed its head briefly, then stooped and untied the bedroll. He spread it sideways before the door. No one could reach her without stepping on him. The dog circled three times, then lay down at the bedroll’s edge.

  “You’re sleeping there?”

  “That’s right.”

  So he wouldn’t practice his husbandly prerogative. Was she so undesirable? Her spirit sank, but she raised her chin, looking from him to the dog and back. “Good. Whatever lives down there can eat you first.”

  He glanced sideways, but she ignored him. Dropping to her knees beside the bed, she crossed herself, then laced her fingers together beneath her chin. “Il Padre Eterno, thank you for giving me my house. Please bless Mamma and Papa, my brothers Angelo, Joseph, Vittorio, Lorenzo, and Tony. Bless my sister, Divina.” She hardly paused at all over this last. She had forgiven Divina and prayed now for her happiness.

  “Bless my uncles, my aunts, godparents, grandparents, and all my family. Please bless Guiseppe and his mules. And bless my stubborn husband. Amen.” She didn’t look his way, but she knew he’d heard every word. She hoped the order of blessing wasn’t lost on him.

  She crossed herself and climbed into the bed. She had resisted trying it even for a moment so that her first feel of it would not be diminished. She sank into its softness with a sigh of pure pleasure. If Quillan preferred the floor, fine.

  Quillan watched her make the hand motion and climb into the bed. Her form was hidden in the gown that hung loosely to the floor, and she pulled the covers to her chin and blew out the candle, but he knew well enough what he’d find beneath it all. She was every man’s dream, beautiful in face and body, sweet and passionate and deadly.

  He couldn’t afford to lose his heart. He wanted her too much. And he knew how that was—the wanting. His whole being ached. He could take care of the physical need. It was his right. But what of the rest? He settled onto the hard floor. Better to remember that and sleep alone.

  FOUR

  Be my banner, O Lord, champion of my soul.

  —Carina

  FOG SHROUDED THE WINDOW when Carina opened her eyes. She had slept soundly in spite of Quillan’s presence, which had made it hard to succumb. No doubt it was the wonder of feathers and clean, warm bedding that at last won out. She nestled her head for a moment, then raised it. The dog raised his, too, and looked at her with expectant eyes, but the bedroll beside him was empty.

  She looked at the door. How had he risen and left without her hearing? She sent her gaze to the window. The fog was dense and swirling. Had he left without her, crept out through the fog and disappeared for months again? No, he wouldn’t leave his dog, Cain’s dog.

  Carina settled back into the comfort of the bed, stretching luxuriously. Then she thought of Quillan seeing her that way and sat up like a shot. She gripped the covers to her chin and searched the room as though he could be hidden somewhere in its bareness. He wasn’t there, but he could be at any moment.
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  She slipped out of the bed, her feet jumping at the cold planks. At Mae’s the floor had held a little warmth from the rooms below. Here it was only cold ground beneath the wood. She washed hurriedly with the pitcher and bowl she had borrowed from Mae and set on a crate by the window.

  Rubbing her face dry, she looked out. The fog had brightened with the coming dawn but had not cleared. The town looked ghostly pale. Maybe Quillan wouldn’t ride out in fog like this. Maybe he would stay with her for the day. She anticipated the thought hopefully. All things were possible. She cleaned her teeth and loosed her braid, then brushed the hair and left it down.

  It was her finest feature. Hadn’t Flavio . . . Carina stopped, amazed. That was the second time she’d thought of Flavio. Did Quillan’s difficult behavior bring to mind the first man she had thought she loved? Would it always be so? Would Quillan wound her in the same way?

  She pressed a fist to her breastbone and dropped to her knees. Grazie, Signore, for this day. I know you are bigger than my troubles. And I am a lot of trouble to you. However, Carina sensed God’s love now in a way she hadn’t before. Crystal had made her know Him, made her need Him. And she had surrendered.

  She no longer tried to boss and bully God, to chastise Him when things didn’t go her way. Her thanks were not empty acknowledgments that He had done as she wanted. He knew better what she needed, and she tried—tried—to submit.

  I ask only that your will be done. You know the desire of my heart. If it is your desire as well, let my husband love me. She remembered Father Antoine’s words. “You don’t have because you don’t ask.” Bene. I’m asking. I’m asking for his love. But you know best. I surrender to your will.

  It was the best she could do with such a wayward spirit as hers. She stood and went to the bed. Stooping, she pulled the carpetbag from underneath. From it she took the skirt and blouse she’d worn yesterday and some clean underclothes. When she had time she would put hooks on the walls. But for now, she must hurry. If Quillan came back while she was changing . . .