Was that … it was! A crate wedged between a spindly tree and the boulder it sprang from. Could it be her books? It looked intact, and that excitement bolstered her. She pulled the sheet from Dom’s saddlebag and braved the edge. If she looked just where her feet were and no farther …
The first step was the worst. It was the only one she had to think about. After that she moved without thinking, sliding, catching herself, and sliding again. She scraped her palm and banged her elbow before grabbing hold of a handful of scrub and stopping her fall. She was only halfway to the ridge, but already she found the remains of the rocker.
It must have flown off before the wagon broke up. She lifted one rung and smoothed the dust off with her fingers. The ache started in her chest. They were only things. She had known when she started out she might lose them one way or another. It was just that she had come so close. And the rocker held such memories of Mamma rocking and crooning in its embrace.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them away. Quillan Shepard. Could he not have added her things to his load? She had brought so little. Did Mr. Quillan Shepard think there was no room for even her meager lot? Would she have added so much to his horses’ toil?
Carina ran her hands down her blouse and skirt. Small boned. Delicata. Even though her angles had filled in as her mother promised they would, she lacked her sister’s soft plumpness. She stood only five foot four inches—hardly substantial. And her trunk, her crates, her few pieces of furniture … could it have been so much?
She sighed. She was tired and hot, bruised and scraped, and not in her right mind. But she was not going to be beaten. She would salvage whatever she could, and what was lost was lost.
Standing, she slid away from the scrub and landed on her backside. She should stay that way, but she couldn’t risk the only skirt she had left. With her hands spread to the sides for balance, she regained her feet and scrabbled down the slope to the ridge where the wagon had struck and gone to pieces.
Beyond that ridge the mountain dropped sheer to the creek bed below. The scene wavered. She felt herself falling and looked quickly away. It was only a trick of her mind. She must not let it confuse her, or she would indeed fall.
A short distance to her left, the lidless trunk lay on its side with a few items of clothing. One was the blue denim skirt she had sewn for the trip. It appeared sound, and she dropped it into the sheet with a camisole and blouse. The lace on the silk blouse was badly torn but maybe not past repair.
She made her way along the precarious ridge to the tree growing from the split boulder. There was indeed a crate of books wedged there, and while the crate was broken open, it hadn’t spilled its contents. Like a greedy child with a candy jar, she dug out every book and piled them into the sheet, then hung it on her shoulder and tugged.
At the weight of it, she nearly lost her footing. Carina dropped the bundle and groaned. She would never make it up the slope with it. That meant more than one trip up and down, again facing the chasm below. But would she rather lose her books? She peered up the steep expanse of rock, scattered pines, and pale golden grasses.
Her chest lurched. A figure appeared at the crest, his long shadow spreading down the slope like molasses. She closed her eyes. What a sight she must present to Mr. Quillan Shepard.
She settled in against the tree as he started down, not sliding in a straight line as she had, but cutting back and forth as he descended, keeping his footing and dislodging as little of the slope as possible. He could not have missed the fresh gash of rockslide and dirt she had left in her wake.
He came to a stop beside her and tipped the broad brim of his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”
“I don’t require your assistance.”
“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” One corner of his mouth twitched. Was he mocking her with Mr. Beck’s words? What sort of man was he to gloat over her misfortune?
He looked back and forth along the ridge. “You’re scavenging your belongings?”
Narrowing her eyes, Carina raised her chin. “I do not scavenge.”
Frowning, he eyed the sheet tied up around what she had already found. “You can’t mean to haul that entire crate of books.”
“I do.”
He smiled crookedly—not at all the smile he’d given Mrs. Barton. “May I?” He reached for the sheet and, to her dismay, untied the top and reached in.
“If you drop so much as one book over, I’ll …”
“What?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
Carina imagined herself shoving him hard, over the edge and down. She saw the rush of air catch his hat, his hair flying up, and his arms wheeling as he plunged downward … The thought brought on a feeling of vertigo, and she turned away.
He pulled out a leather-bound copy of Dickens and flipped it open. “ ‘It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.’ ”
Carina brushed the loose strand of hair from her face. “That was my papa’s.”
He didn’t comment, only slipped the pack from his back, undid the leather clasp, and pulled it open. Then he moved the books from her sheet into the pack until it was full. Only four remained.
What was he doing? What was this gesture? A guilty conscience? He certainly had cause for one. “How did you know I was here?”
“Saw your mule.” He reached into the branches of the pine and retrieved a petticoat with eyelet trim.
Carina snatched it from him.
He shouldered the pack. “See what else you can get into that sheet. Don’t try to go up without me. From the looks of your trail down, you’re lucky your neck’s not broken already.” He started up, traversing the slope as he had before, as surefooted as a goat.
Leaving the sheet spread open on the ridge, Carina crept back along its edge to a clump of bushes. The small, fuzzy, gray-green leaves on the branches were thick with feathers where her mattress had met its end. The rest of the bedding must have gone over the edge, maybe even been carried away by the creek below. Hooking her arm around a spindly pine trunk beside the bush, she chanced a look down. There at the water’s edge was her iron headboard.
She swayed and regained her balance, then scooped up a shawl and camisole without even checking their condition. Farther along the edge, she found the shattered remains of two lamps, utterly useless, and a battered kettle, salvageable. One iron pot and its lid were caught in a bush, and she dug into the branches to retrieve her hand mirror.
It had been a gift from Papa for her sixteenth birthday. Cradling the smooth, curved frame in her palm, she caught her reflection, repeated in angular fragments by the slivers. The sun, glancing off the shards, pained her eyes, and she set the mirror on the shawl. It was useless, but she wouldn’t leave it there like so much rubbish.
Seeing nothing more, she carried her finds back to the sheet. There she laid the pot and kettle and mirror among the remaining books as Mr. Shepard returned. The camisole and petticoat she tucked under the skirt, blouse, and shawl, unwilling to give him a second glimpse of her lacy whites.
He eyed the large iron pot, then bent and worked it into his pack along with the lid. “There’s a ladle behind you, and I’d wager that box holds silver.”
Carina spun, crouched down beside the bush he indicated, and clapped her hands together, forgetting everything in her excitement. “It is! It’s Nonna’s silver, and …” As she reached, the ladle slid off the edge and sailed down … down …
Her head spun, and she felt the box slipping from her fingers. Something gripped her arms, then her waist.
“Whoa, lady, don’t faint here.”
Coming to her senses, she shook off Quillan Shepard’s arms. “I do not faint. It’s … high places.”
He looked over the edge, and she felt her insides jelly.
“Please.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Don’t lean.”
Again he crooked an eyebrow. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Carina turned away. How Flavio had taunted … until he saw it truly
hurt her. She dropped her chin. What should it matter? She could live with it. What business was it of anyone else’s?
Mr. Shepard eyed the slope up. “You must have wanted your things awfully bad.”
She didn’t answer, knowing tears would choke her voice. She stooped down and fingered a broken shard of china. Her blue willow plate. He heaved the pack to his back and climbed again without further comment.
Buono. She wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth by refusing his help, but she wanted none of his sympathy, if he was even capable of that. She searched the ground on either side, but there was nothing else. Carefully she laid her nonna’s box of silver forks, knives, and spoons on the sheet, then tied it tightly. She hauled it to her shoulder and looked up. With a deep breath, she started to climb.
It was not as easy as Quillan Shepard made it look, but she followed his example, going at an angle and keeping her feet sideways to the slope. At least she did not have to see the drop below. The worst part was turning to cut back the opposite way. Each time, she lost ground and sent the dirt cascading down. Once she caught herself with an outstretched hand to keep from going with it.
“Hold up.” Quillan Shepard left no room for argument.
She stopped climbing and waited for him to meet her. When he reached for the filled sheet, she handed it over but couldn’t resist saying, “I’m not helpless.”
He shouldered the sheet. “Now keep upslope from me, and I’ll break your fall if you come loose.”
Near the top there was no choice but to scrabble with hands and feet. Carina reached up. Suddenly Quillan Shepard thrust her aside with the back of his arm, caught her on his knee, and fired the gun that flashed from his holster.
Carina cried out with the gun’s report, clamping her hands to her ears, which left her hanging from his knee. He swung his arm under her ribs and pressed against the slope, digging his boot into the ground to stop their slide. She shrieked and struggled when the spasming snake body flipped over the edge and dangled from a rock at her cheekbone.
“Stop!” He flung the snake aside with the barrel of the gun and tightened his grip on her ribs.
Carina’s heart pounded against his forearm as she sucked in ragged breaths and stopped fighting. Her ears rang, and her stomach turned at the bloody ooze left on the stones. She was thankful now for the hollow in her belly. Breakfast might not have remained inside.
“All right, use my knee for a step.” His voice was strained but firm.
Carina obeyed, though she would not reach blindly for the edge again. She climbed onto his thigh just above the knee and pushed herself up to find herself eye-level with the gaping, fanged mouth of the snake. She lurched back instinctively, but Quillan Shepard’s hand was firm on her spine, allowing no retreat.
His gunshot had severed the snake’s head, and it lay there as though unaware the rest was gone. Cringing, she pulled herself up, then twisted around and sat, ignoring as best she could the tan-and-gray plaited snake head lying in the dirt. Her breath came in long, shaking lungfuls.
Quillan Shepard climbed down to where the sheet bundle had fallen, then made his way back up. When he reached the road, he nudged the snake head with his boot toe. “Don’t touch it yet. Poison’s still good.”
Carina flashed him a glance. Touch it? She scrambled to her feet. “Is it a rattlesnake?”
“It is. You seem to have a way of attracting snakes, Miss DiGratia.”
So he was back to taunting. She would not ponder what he meant. The gun was holstered on his hip. She had not noticed before that he was one of those who carried a gun, but she was deeply thankful now. “You saved my life.”
“One bite doesn’t usually kill, but you’re in a whole lot of hurt. ‘Course, if he’d gotten a neck hold …” He dumped the sheet on the trail.
Carina shuddered, glancing once again at the jaws of the snake spread so wide they almost doubled back. The fangs stood out like needles.
“Keep it if you want. It’s powerful medicine to some.” At her incredulous look, he shrugged, then kicked the head over the side, where it tumbled to meet its body.
“How did you know it was there?”
“The rattle. Didn’t you hear it?”
In her scramble she had heard nothing. But why elaborate?
He yanked open the sheet and emptied its contents beside those he had already taken from his pack. He looked over the assortment, though, to his credit, lingered less over her underthings than the pot and kettle and books. “How’re you getting all this back to town?”
She motioned to Dom, expecting his criticism, but it didn’t come.
He studied the pile, then began arranging the items in the sheet. “You’ll want it balanced so the mule doesn’t strain something.”
Noting his kindness toward the animal, she softened in spite of herself.
When he had the load divided, he tied up the ends and fixed the makeshift pack over Dom’s back. He checked its fit, then came back around. “Can’t hurry him with iron pots and Dickens banging his flanks. It’s hard enough to expect him to cross the summit two days running.”
Carina’s back rose again. “I won’t.”
“Well, then, I guess you’re set.” He gave her a hand to mount and checked the fit of the pack again. “At his pace … a couple, three hours to town. Should have plenty of daylight.”
She nodded, taking up the reins, and looked about for his transportation. He pointed down the road. At the first spot wide enough for two conveyances, his team and wagon waited, the load once again carefully tied under a tarp. He must have passed Dom, then left his wagon and walked back up.
“Couldn’t block the road.”
His gray eyes pierced, and she heard the unspoken defense of his previous action. Without another word, he started down.
“Wait!” Carina called.
He half turned.
“There is something you can get me.”
He waited.
“A gun.” The thought had sprung to her mind and now surprised them both. Let him think her pazza. She would not be caught again without protection.
He cocked his head. “Any kind in particular?”
What could she say? She knew nothing of guns but thought of how Mae’s had fit into her palm. “Something small to carry with me, as I’ve already been robbed, cheated, and nearly snake-bitten.”
He turned slowly on his boot heel, then walked away. Carina tugged Dom’s head from the dry patch of grass he was working on and started up the trail. She glanced down once from the top, but Quillan Shepard had reached his wagon and did not look back.
Quillan released the break and took up the reins. When he’d seen Miss DiGratia’s mule at the edge of the road and the slide she had taken down, he half expected to find her battered body at the bottom of the canyon. The sight of her clinging to the tree, scrabbling for her belongings, was one that wouldn’t leave him soon.
It occurred to him now that the things he’d discarded had meant something to her. Meant a lot, maybe. The thought didn’t sit well. Maybe she wasn’t what he’d taken her for, but how was he to know she didn’t trade on her looks, which were considerable. A woman alone, young and lovely. Only one thing drew them to a place like Crystal.
Apparently not Miss DiGratia, however. Even so, on the worst stretch of road, his horses pressed to their limit and his load calculated to the final pound of machinery for the Silver Belle shaft works—and add to that the stage riding his dust and its clientele whom he’d watered with in Fairplay … No, there hadn’t been a choice. His conscience stung only a moment. There hadn’t been a choice.
He nickered to the horses, and they started off. Too bad she had fallen in with Beck. But she’d catch on soon enough, though Beck was putting on a good show, the hand-kissing especially. Quillan snorted. He edged the horses to the left for the turn, then settled in for a long ride.
Time alone on the road, alone with his thoughts. He felt a vague annoyance that they clung to a black-haired wai
f with coffee-colored eyes, large and defined and beautifully shaped in her likewise well-formed face.
He rubbed his jaw with his palm and pulled his thoughts toward something else, something to recite maybe. Looking around him, he settled his mind on William Blake. To see a world in a grain of sand … He bent his memory to the task, mastering his thoughts, forcing them down an avenue of his choice. That was better, and definitely smarter.
FIVE
What I know is little to what I hope to know. What I feel is already too much.
—Rose
CARINA SLOWED AS SHE reached the bottom of the dip. Dom exhaled through his nostrils and choked. She dismounted and checked the balance of the load across his flanks. Quillan Shepard had divided it well, but in the sheet it was still an ungainly and uncomfortable load. Dom turned his large mournful eyes on her, and she stroked the side of his neck.
Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, Carina scanned the distance, trying not to think of Quillan Shepard’s remark. Was it too much for the mule to cross the summit again today? She could just make out the bare slopes that held Crystal City. Behind it, the sun was setting in brilliant streaks of orange, casting the mountains in shadow.
She turned back to the mule, jacked up her skirts, and remounted. Dom started forward, wheezing. What was wrong with him? He had worked hard before, was no stranger to it. This could not be more toil than pulling the wagon mile after mile. Still, she dismounted and walked around to his head.
Foam circled his mouth at the bit and his head hung heavy. “What is it, old man? Why can’t you walk? Am I too much for you to carry, too?” She stroked his soft muzzle. “Very well. I’ll walk, and you will carry my books. It’s not so far, now. Come.” She pulled gently, and he followed, head low and coughing until again he resisted the rein.
“Come. We cannot stop here. Slowly, sì, but come.” She tugged. As the sun nestled behind Mount Pointe, the evening chill penetrated her blouse, and when Dom balked again, she released him.
The Rose Legacy Page 5
