The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Read online

  She felt his rough whiskers against her fingers. “I do. But Dr. Felden—”

  “I know you can’t travel yet. But we need to get things in order. I think you should sell your restaurant. Or give it away, turn it over to Èmie or Mae.”

  So there it was. Until that moment she hadn’t thought through the details of leaving. She had only longed to see Mamma and Papa and everyone in Sonoma. She had wanted to flee the place where her baby had been beaten from her body. Tears sprang again from her eyes. Was there no end to them?

  Quillan brushed them away with his thumb. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “It is, but how can I leave Mae? And Èmie and . . .”

  “Alex?” His tone was caustic.

  She glared. She had not intended that. “Alex Makepeace is a friend to me. If you were so concerned—”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” He dropped her hand, stood, and paced to the wall. “But it’s like a sword inside me every time he looks at you. Knowing he sent your attackers running—”

  “You should be thankful.”

  His fists clenched at his sides. “I am. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Carina tossed her head back and flung her palm upward. “First you don’t want me—”

  “That’s not true!”

  “You told me every time you came, ‘Go away, end this marriage.’ ”

  Quillan pressed his fingers to the sides of his head. “Not because I didn’t want you.”

  “No?”

  “No.” His voice was firm, insistent.

  She sighed, letting her hand fall. “I don’t know where to start.”

  He came and dropped to one knee beside the bed. Carefully he unfolded the paper from one of the chocolates in the box. He held it up and met her eyes. “Start here.” He brought the candy to her lips, and she bit the edge, tasting the rich, velvety confection.

  It melted away in her mouth, and she licked her lower lip. “Start with chocolate?”

  His mouth quirked. “Why not?”

  A pang of fear and loss seized her; fear that Quillan’s cold, hurtful side would return. And loss—well, all the loss. Why couldn’t it have been this way from the start? Why, Signore? Quillan slid the rest of the chocolate piece into her mouth. Receiving it from his fingers was so intimate, so tender, her heart quaked.

  He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I want to show you I care. To court you as I should have.”

  She searched his face. What was he saying? He was her husband, the man she loved.

  “I read something last night.” He closed his eyes, then looked again. “ ‘Now I rejoice, not that ye were made sorry, but that ye sorrowed to repentance.’ ” His throat worked. “I’m sorry to repentance, Carina. You said you forgive me, and God also, but I want to make it right.”

  She felt the intensity of that desire. She knew it herself, that driving need to right a wrong. She said, “You have. You’re here.”

  He gripped her hand almost painfully. “Don’t make it so easy.”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “You deserve more.”

  Was he saying he loved her? He’d never said the words. He’d spoken poetry, and twice they’d come together, once shyly, deeply, on their wedding night, the other time in anger. But never had he said he loved her. Dio, he must. He couldn’t look at her that way unless he did.

  She dropped her gaze to his lips and willed him to say it. Her pulse raced, waiting. Surely he would kiss her. She looked up as his face drew close, drawn there, she knew, by her own desire.

  Then he brought her fingers up between them, pressed them to his lips. His breath was hot. “I married you to prove that I could best Berkley Beck.”

  “I put you in that position.”

  “You came to me for help.”

  “You helped.” But after their wedding, she had faced his desertion, the vigilante hangings, her danger and rescue, then Quillan’s repeated offers of divorce.

  He pressed her fingers to his lips again. “You’ve been under my skin from the start.”

  Under his skin? Was that the same as love?

  He opened her hand and kissed her palm. “From the day I saw you on the slope scavenging the bits and pieces left from your wagon.”

  “Thanks to you,” she scoffed.

  “If I’d known I’d be paying for that the rest of my life, I’d have dismantled your wagon and killed my team hauling every ounce of it.”

  Carina stared at his intensity.

  His voice thickened. “All I want is the chance to make it right.” He laid her hand down and drew back.

  She sensed the moment lost. He would not kiss her, not say he loved her. She sank into the pillows. What did he want from her? Would she ever understand this son of Wolf and Rose? Signore, would you be so kind as to give me a clue? She could almost hear God laughing. She failed to see the humor.

  FOUR

  If travail has a purpose, let me find it now.

  If honor needs a taker, O Lord, me endow.

  If wisdom is a garment, let me wear it well.

  If goodness needs a champion, help me dark dispel.

  —Quillan

  QUILLAN ROSE EARLY. The need to make things right gave him little rest. It drove his desire to conclude the sale of the mine and make preparation for departure. As Quillan crossed Central at Pine under the clear morning sky, he was hailed by Ben Masterson. Quillan turned and extended his hand with a smile. “Mr. Mayor.”

  Masterson clasped his hand. “I hear you’re selling out.”

  “From whom?”

  “Round about.”

  Quillan shrugged, trying to look noncommittal. He’d told no one but Carina, though Makepeace might have talked. “I was hoping to keep it tight until I heard back from Daniel Cain.”

  “Selling out both your interests?”

  “I don’t know yet. D.C. hasn’t answered.”

  “He won’t, either. Not for a while.” Masterson sent his gaze upward toward the pass. “Snow brought down the lines two nights ago.”

  The night Quillan and Makepeace had fought through the storm back to Crystal. It must have been especially heavy over Mosquito Pass, where the telegraph line ran. Quillan frowned. He had time before Carina could travel, but he’d wanted to wrap up this sale as soon as possible. The consolidateds would try to get their hands on the New Boundless, and he was determined to resist their efforts after what had happened to his wife.

  He’d offered the mine to Makepeace for less than its worth, assuming D.C. would also sell, and Tabor had set liberal terms. If details got out, he’d have a dogfight with men he’d rather strangle than haggle with. It was critical he communicate with D.C., but the lines could be down for weeks.

  “I’m sorry about your wife, Quillan.” Masterson looked sincere, but Quillan knew he was only sorry as far as it didn’t threaten commerce and peace. He’d been willing to lynch her once.

  Quillan nodded.

  “Guess it’s understandable, your clearing out. Will she be able to travel soon?”

  “Doc Felden thinks a couple more weeks abed, then we’ll see.”

  “I’m truly sorry. It’s an ugly business when our women aren’t safe. I’m just glad those reprobates cleared out after.”

  Again Quillan nodded. It would do no good taking Masterson to task. He had a political mind, and to him the welfare of Crystal far exceeded Carina’s justice. Quillan tipped his hat and continued across Central. Turning left, he headed for the livery.

  “Good mornin’, boyo.” Alan Tavish huddled in a rocker next to the stove, fragrant pipe smoke circling his head.

  “Good morning, Alan.” Quillan took in his bent, arthritic form. Alan seemed more contorted than ever, and Quillan’s heart seized at the thought of leaving him. With Cain gone, he’d drawn close to Alan, and he worried about the old man. Who would check in on him beyond their livery needs, stay to chat, see that he took care of himself?

  Quillan dropped to a barrel b
eside the rocker.

  “How’s the lass?”

  Quillan smiled. Carina would always be “the lass” to Alan. “Better since she’s following doctor’s orders.”

  Alan grinned. “Bit of vinegar there.”

  “A bit.” Quillan raised his brows.

  Alan pointed with the stem of his pipe. “And you?”

  Quillan knew which part of his well-being Alan addressed. “I’m trying, Alan. Courting her as you said I should.”

  Alan patted Quillan’s thigh, his crumpled knuckles upraised like spider legs. “It’ll do ye good, boyo.”

  Quillan leaned his head back to the wall. What he wanted most was to grab Carina into his arms and kiss her breath away, then know her as he had on their wedding night. But he had hurt her once, taken her in anger, and he was determined not to even kiss her again until he’d mended that. Carina had to want his touch, his kiss. Sometimes it seemed she did already, but it was more likely his own desire speaking.

  “I need to reach D.C., Alan.”

  His change of subject had little effect on the old ostler. Alan was used to his close keeping of personal thoughts.

  “Ye know where he is.”

  “I wired him in Northfield, but the lines are down.”

  Alan shrugged. “Send a wire from Fairplay.”

  “I’d have to get there.”

  “Aye.”

  Quillan shook his head. “I just left Carina. How would it look to go again?”

  Alan’s silence said too much. Never worried about that before. Ye must be smitten sure, lad. And it’s about time. Quillan could hear it well enough without Alan speaking aloud.

  “Then I’d have to wait in Fairplay for a reply.” Quillan raised his hands, frustrated.

  “Aye.”

  Quillan dropped his hands to his lap. “She won’t understand. You should have seen her.” He recalled her face as he’d told her he was going to Leadville with Makepeace. The twisting started inside him. Ah, that was the root of it now. Leaving Carina alone with Alex Makepeace. He could hardly take the man along this time.

  “She’ll bide.”

  Oh, she’d bide all right. With Makepeace to make the biding easier. Never had Quillan felt such possessive malice. But then, he’d never loved before, never allowed himself to love. “I can’t do it, Alan. If Makepeace—”

  “Ah, boyo. ’Tis a jaundiced eye ye have.”

  “You said yourself she could love him and would if—”

  “That was before ye put your trust in the Almighty.”

  Quillan sat silently. How did Alan know? Did it show on the outside, the surrender? And what exactly was Alan saying? That God would keep Makepeace away from Carina? Lord? Quillan searched his heart. How did faith work? All the sermons his foster father had spoken, all the truths Cain had touted; had they told Quillan how to live? How to handle this jealousy, this doubt, this aching fear that he’d lose Carina and it would be his own fault?

  “I don’t know what to do, Alan.”

  Alan drew long on his pipe, puffed out the smoke. “Pray, Quillan. Ask God. Then trust He’ll see to your business better than you.”

  The thought of turning Carina’s safety, Carina’s fidelity, over to God, even the God to whom he’d surrendered in his father’s cave . . . It was easier to surrender himself than Carina. He shook his head. “I’ve made a mess of it.”

  “ ’Tis bought and paid for ye are, Quillan. Whatever ye’ve done or failed to do, sure Christ the Savior has taken it on himself.”

  Why didn’t it feel that way? If God forgave him, if Carina forgave, why couldn’t he forgive himself? Just the thought of telling Carina he had to leave town again brought a burning shame. She’d known before he spoke the last time; she had expected it, seen it coming—and why not? It’s all he’d given her. His back.

  But without D.C.’s okay, he couldn’t go forward with the sale. And with the lines down . . . He sighed. Mae had told him to learn to be still. Alan said pray. Maybe today he could do that much. He leaned forward and patted Alan’s shoulder. “Thank you, old man.”

  Alan covered his hand with his dry, callused palm. “Seek Him first, and the rest will come.”

  Quillan nodded. The feelings he had for Alex Makepeace were certainly not rooted in God. And he couldn’t let those feelings rule his decisions. Maybe he would do better to learn God’s mind in it. He left the livery and returned to Carina’s room, hushing Sam’s eager greeting. Carina was still sleeping, and he stood for a moment looking down on her and wondering how he could have been such a fool.

  Then, taking Cain’s worn Bible from his pack, he sat on one of the two chairs beside the small table as Sam settled at his feet. He laid the book down and opened to the gospel of Saint Matthew. It was the first of the gospels and seemed as good a place to start as any. He was certainly familiar with the scriptures. He’d committed whole books to memory at the instigation of Reverend and Mrs. Shepard, his foster parents. But though he’d memorized the words, he’d never taken them to heart.

  Now he looked at the book, wondering if he could learn it differently. He’d read it two nights ago, and that phrase he’d quoted to Carina had jumped out at him from the page as though he’d never seen it before. He closed his eyes. Jesus, show me what you want me to know. Change my heart, my mind, my being. Make me new. Where had that prayer come from? It was as though some power had prayed through him, prayed what he needed even though he hadn’t known what he needed.

  Quillan reached into his pack and pulled out the journal in which he’d begun to jot thoughts and writings, mainly in the form of poetry. He found a fresh page and, at the top, wrote the prayer he’d just prayed. Then looking at the words, he read them back, owning them. The constriction in his heart eased, and he read through the gospel of Matthew.

  When he finished, he felt as though he had only just begun to know Jesus and his followers, and he wanted to know more, needed to. He wrote: Lord I want to know you, your heart, your mind, your being. Glancing up, he saw Carina watching him. How long had she been awake? He met her eyes and felt the jolting charge of connecting with her. Without touching, they held each other; without words, they spoke. But did she understand? Did she know what she meant to him?

  “What is that?” She motioned to the journal.

  “My diary. Or something like that.” He flipped back to a page nearer the front, stood, and carried it to her.

  She took the open journal and read aloud.

  “The Road

  A winding gash across and up a mighty craggy crown,

  Blasted, hewn, and flattened down to form a ribbon where,

  The wheels of commerce rolling forward, forward up and down,

  To and fro and back and forth with ne’er a moment spare.

  Carcass bleaching in the sun, horse flesh pushed to death,

  Stage behind and bed before, and fate trapped in between,

  Wears a face both fair and keen that takes away my breath,

  If I had known, if I had done, if I had only seen.”

  Tears brightened her eyes to dark sparkling pools. They clutched his heart when she looked up, and he stooped beside her, clasped her hand.

  She cleared the morning and tears from her throat. “Am I fate, Quillan?”

  “Fate, destiny, gift.” Meeting Carina Maria DiGratia in the road had changed his life.

  She searched his face. “Whose gift?”

  “God’s.” He stroked the top of her hand, so softly the mere touch of it brought him alive.

  “Do you believe God put me in your road because he meant us to be together?”

  Quillan pondered that. Had he not met Carina stranded on the road, would he have noticed her in town? Would he have looked up long enough to note her face and allowed himself to think about her twice? Had God broken her wheel at just that place to make him stop and pay attention? It was impossible to think he could have cohabited Crystal with Carina and not been swept away by the same force that had him now. But he was not t
he man now that he’d been then.

  “Yes, Carina. I was too boneheaded otherwise.”

  She smiled, and he wanted so much to kiss her he almost threw away all of Alan’s advice and just did it. But he stood up instead, taking the journal with him.

  “Can’t I see the rest?”

  “Sometime, maybe. Some of it.” He smiled crookedly. “The parts about you.”

  “I want to see it all. I want to know you.” Her words echoed his own search that morning. Knowing—how deep that word.

  “I want to know you, too, Carina.”

  She threw up her hand. “You do know me! You’ve known me from the start. I don’t hide who I am.”

  His grin deepened. No, she didn’t hide anything. Couldn’t if she tried.

  She raised her chin. “But you? You shoot the head from a rattlesnake, drag me from a mineshaft, save me from lynching, and now you’re a poet?”

  He spread his hand, helpless to explain.

  “You know what I thought the first time I saw you, after you’d thrown my wagon down the mountain? I thought you a pirate. Standing in the hotel with Mrs. Barton fawning, you looked the worst blackguard buccaneer imaginable.”

  Quillan laughed. “I wondered what you were thinking. But you were dining with Berkley Beck, as I recall.”

  “Not dining. Meeting. Trying to save what I could of my hopes and thinking all the while how I would get back at you for what you’d done.”

  Quillan dropped his gaze. She’d succeeded admirably. There was certainly hurt between them.

  “Now you show me these words, and they melt my heart.”

  His own turned to syrup as he raised his eyes to hers. “I want them to.”

  Again her tears came, and he felt stung. Was it so awful for her to think he loved her? He turned away. “I have to go to Fairplay, Carina.” She didn’t answer, and he knew the look he’d find on her face if he looked. “The telegraph wires are down over Mosquito Pass. I have to contact D.C. and know what he wants to do about the mine.”

  “Won’t they fix them?” Her voice trembled, but with sorrow or suppressed rage he couldn’t tell without looking.

  “It’ll take too long.” He glanced at Sam lying by the door, head raised. Did even the dog blame him for once again walking out? “We need to act quickly to avoid trouble, trouble for Alex Makepeace.” Now he did look at her.