The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Carina noted a hint of derision as he eyed Mr. Beck with pale robin-egg eyes.

  “There’s plenty of future in Leadville.” Tabor boomed his voice over Beck’s. “The richest square mile in the Rockies. Fortunes to be made, riches you’ll never find here. I know, boys. I’ve walked these hills since ’60. This gulch’ll go the way of Placerville, a little surface metal, then nothing. But Leadville …”

  “Crystal is not Placerville.” Berkley Beck smiled as though reproving a child. “Why, assays are coming in every day with high content silver and gold both. We’re only scraping the surface, and the deeper we go, the better it gets. Gentlemen, your place is here—Crystal, Colorado.” Berkley Beck stepped down from the stump as though that was the final word and nothing more needed saying.

  Horace Tabor shrugged. “You men know the odds. Why not grab for a sure thing?” He, too, stepped down and was pressed into the crowd and hauled to the saloon. Clearly some of the men liked what they heard from him better than Mr. Beck’s promises.

  Carina searched the street for Berkley Beck, but he must have returned to his office. It was nothing to her if the miners went to Leadville. Let them clear out and make the streets passable. Ten thousand men in Leadville? It was bad enough with three thousand in Crystal, though how they had managed to count with all the coming and going, she had no idea. For all she knew, it might be no more than Mr. Beck’s best guess.

  SEVEN

  Of all life’s betrayers, the heart is the worst. It flutters with joyful anticipation, leading down paths better untrod. Now that I know my heart, I must never follow it again.

  —Rose

  QUILLAN SHEPARD BALANCED the single-shot derringer in his palm. It was small and light. It would fit Carina DiGratia’s hand, but she would have to be close enough to smell a man’s breath to make her only shot do any damage. With the roughs getting bolder and the constabulary turning a blind eye …

  He handed the gun back. “Not likely she’ll hit much with only one shot.”

  “There is the Remington over-under derringer, double shot …”

  “What do you have that’ll pack a punch without taking her arm off?”

  The man replaced the derringer and held out a Sharps 4-Barrel Pepperbox. “Thirty-two caliber rimfire. Brass frame case, steel barrel with gutta-percha grips. It’s used, but fine condition.” He fingered the hard rubber grips molded into leaves and vines and curlicues.

  Now that was more like it. Quillan took hold of the pistol. Not a revolver, but a sturdy weapon with four shots instead of one or two. Thirty-two caliber rimfire cartridges would rarely prove fatal, but one ought to stop a man in his tracks, especially with four shots.

  Quillan examined it for defect, felt the balance in his hand, and looked down the sight on the barrel. “How much do you want?” He haggled on the price and made the deal, then went back out to the wagon, loaded and ready for the trip up the pass. He pulled himself onto the box, clicked his tongue to the horses, and slapped the reins on the backs of his first relay of horses.

  It was all so natural to him, he went through the motions now without a thought. He had a good head for this work and the constitution as well—not so tall he had to hunch, but straight and muscular and sound. The sky was clear, the day warm, but not too warm thanks to the breeze off the mountains. He settled in and made the drive from Denver to Morrison without a hitch.

  There he loaded on cargo from the railhead and started on. He’d change horses twice and spend the first night in the open, the second in Fairplay. There he’d pick up his leaders, Jack and Jock, and the wheelers, Peter and Ginger, all four of which he owned outright. He saved them for Mosquito Pass, as it was nearly winter conditions up there, and they were the most reliable. Also, he liked having the blacks in Crystal for his use in town.

  As he drove, he recited William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, which he’d read the night before, exhausting the collection of Blake’s works he’d purchased in Denver. It bothered him he couldn’t get one of the lines right, and he felt impatient with himself. The drive seemed longer than it had for some while. Normally he liked the stretch of time alone with his thoughts, liked the spread of blue sky, the craggy heights, the call of a hawk overhead.

  But he was antsy today. He’d been five days out of town, three driving and one making purchases, then delayed another in Denver waiting for the box of vaccine to arrive. Now every new delay worked on him like sandpaper. He turned his mind to the cargo he hauled, none of it pre-orders except for what he’d taken from the train.

  He’d chosen everything else, things rare to the folks of Crystal, things that would be appreciated and sell well. Except the gun for Miss DiGratia. Guns were common enough in the mining town that was outgrowing its decency. Though most of the miners still went about unarmed, the rough element and the guards hired to keep them off private claims were heeled well enough. Not that guns were the first mode the roughs chose. They were still thugs, preferring their fists and clubs.

  Quillan’s own revolver was a necessity, as was the rifle he kept under the seat. Riding the route alone for days at a time left him open to robbery and other such interference. Not to mention beasts of nature such as the rattler he’d beheaded with a single bullet. A .45 at close range was deadly.

  He considered the piece of hardware he’d purchased for Miss DiGratia. The same gun in town would run her five times as high. He ought to charge a commission, as he wasn’t exactly replacing something she had lost. He’d wager he hadn’t sent a gun down the mountain with her things.

  He took only a short stop to eat his dinner and switch the horses, then started off again. He’d drive until nightfall, then sleep under the wagon, so tired he’d hardly feel the ground. Hard work didn’t bother him. He’d rather be working from the onset of day to the sinking of the sun than sitting idle. “Idleness is the devil’s tool,” he thought wryly, picturing the pinched face of the woman who’d drilled that lesson in. That and plenty of others.

  But he’d taken it to heart, working sometimes just to spite her. Most of the time, though, he worked because it suited him. Diligence was a virtue he came to naturally, and one that had brought him this far. He didn’t expect to drive a freight wagon his whole life, but for now it was a lucrative opportunity.

  Quillan smacked the reins. He was making good time, but he was still eager to reach his destination. That was not a good sign. If he started chafing the distance, he wouldn’t last long as a freighter. And as he had purchased his own rig and outfit, he intended to last. Still, he pressed on farther than his usual night camp, then stopped, cared for the horses, and unrolled his bedding.

  Sliding under the wagon, he expected to drop right off into the honest sleep of hard labor. Instead, he lay wondering how much extra the horses could have managed if he’d added Miss DiGratia’s load to his own. It was sheer foolishness, but somehow the question kept insinuating itself into his mind. It made sleep less than enjoyable.

  Rising before the sun, Quillan started on again and made Fairplay by evening. He spent the night in the Fairplay House as he did most every trip by arrangement. In the morning he hitched up his own team and began the home stretch. Though June had been dryer than usual, there were still drifts of snow along the pass. But the road was passable, and aside from putting on a heavier coat, Quillan kept on as he’d been.

  It bothered him that his impatience hadn’t passed, though he’d slept better than the previous night. Taking a winding section of the road, he edged the horses closer to the canyon wall, away from the edge. The weight of his load stayed firm, with no shifting as he made the next turn. He prided himself on that. A freighter’s first loyalty was to his load.

  He heard horses coming up behind and turned. Stevens and McLaughlin’s stage. The four-horse team pulled the Concord coach briskly until it was right on his backside. Quillan maintained his pace. He had the right of way. If he lost his load over the side, it was his responsibility to get it back up. If the stage lost its
load, as the saying went, the driver only had to bury it.

  The road widened past the turn, and Fogerty, the stage driver, hollered, “Comin’ around.” Quillan pulled in as close to the side as he could manage, reined in, and waited while the twelve passengers disembarked. They held the ropes tied to the roof and walked alongside to counterbalance it along the edge while Fogerty angled the stage around the wagon.

  Sometimes Quillan thought the rope business was more to impress the passengers than for any actual need, though it was true the stage was more easily maneuvered empty. The passengers waved as they passed him on foot, then reboarded the stage. They were a motley assortment as usual, mostly rough men coming to stake a claim, one woman who looked sour as bad milk, and a swell or two.

  The last would be cut down to size before long, for Crystal City was no respecter of pomposity. A man could have money or not, good luck or bad. But if he came into town with a high opinion of himself, he didn’t keep it for long. There were too many newly rich and too many changing fortunes each day.

  When he made it into Crystal late that afternoon, the buzz of the town was well under way, it being Friday. Quillan had hoped to beat the weekend madness, but the extra day in Denver had cost him. Now it would take much longer to make the deliveries. Fighting his way through the crowds, he stopped first at Ormsby’s Drugstore with the extracts and tinctures. He made a handsome profit on that load, having finagled items hard to come by at the best of times. But Ormsby could afford it. Doc Felden would get the one precious box of smallpox vaccine, no extra charge.

  He headed next for MacDonald’s Sampling Works. He had a scale for them, as theirs had not been weighing accurately. He knew Gavin MacDonald was too Scotch to order a new scale, but Quillan would make the man believe it a bargain and see it put to use before someone got shot. A bad scale was unforgivable in these parts.

  In just over two hours he had all but the last of his deliveries made and the money collected. The last was Miss DiGratia’s. The gunsmith had thrown in a leather shoulder holster, though Quillan doubted Miss DiGratia would wear it. Nevertheless, it was wrapped in the package with the gun, and he took it from beneath the box. He made his way on foot through the incoming miners to Drake Road.

  Mae Dixon watched him from the porch like a well-fed cat. “Well, well. Quillan.”

  “Hello, Mae. I have a delivery for Miss DiGratia.”

  Her violet eyes took on a decidedly feline glee. “You can leave it at the desk.”

  Quillan cocked his head. “How would I get payment?”

  “She can leave it at the desk.”

  He took the steps up. The cool evening air ruffled the hair on his neck. “All right.”

  “Then again …” Mae nodded to the street. “You could hold still a moment.”

  Quillan turned as Carina DiGratia lifted her skirt and stepped off the end of the boardwalk. He saw only a flash of booted ankle, enough to confirm that her leg bones were as delicate as the rest of her. He noted the blue denim skirt they’d rescued from the mountain and a fresh white blouse with a lacy ruffle like moth’s wings down the front. Was it the torn and ragged blouse she’d scavenged? If so, she’d done admirably by it.

  She carried herself sprightly enough, unaware of an audience. He’d wager she had money, or at least she’d come from it. She didn’t look the hard-luck kind, come to find riches in the Rockies. Especially not by the means most women found it.

  He was surprised now that he could have thought so. There was an air of quality he’d missed on the road, a certain strength of spirit and breeding. She was like the dainty, dark Morgan horse he’d seen in Golden, small-boned and light-footed. If he pressed his imagination, he’d see her prance and bob her head as that filly had.

  But now she looked up and saw him, dark eyes suddenly large. He wished she wouldn’t startle so every time they met. It made him feel less than respectable. He tipped his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”

  Mae heaved herself up. “I’ll leave you two to settle business.” She went inside and closed the door that had stood open to catch the cross breeze.

  As Miss DiGratia climbed the steps, Quillan held out the package. “Your order.”

  She took it without comment and pulled open the paper. The gun was holstered, and she slid it out and tried the feel of it.

  He could see it was a good fit, but even a small gun had weight. Her wrist didn’t want to support it until she firmed the muscles and stiffened her arm. “You know how to use it?” he asked.

  “I understand the mechanism. I don’t need the holster….”

  “It’s no charge. Came with the gun.” He handed her the box of rimfire cartridges that hadn’t come free. “If you haven’t used a pistol …”

  “I’m certain I can learn. What do I owe you?”

  Why did he feel like a robber when he named his price? He’d hardly put anything on top for his trouble. It was recalling her on that slope, picking up the flotsam from her wagon …

  She held out the holster. “Take off a dollar and you can resell this.”

  She was bartering? He tucked his tongue between his side teeth and eyed her, her head tipped up to meet his gaze squarely, shoulders back. What good was it to sell a holster without a gun to fill it?

  “It’s a deal.” His voice was a stranger.

  She nodded her satisfaction and turned for the door. “The money’s inside.”

  Quillan leaned on the porch post. “I’ll wait here.” Raising his hat, he shook back his hair. A cricket sang from under the porch, and he could smell Mae’s cooking. Maybe he’d eat here tonight. Though Mae seated more than she roomed, he was early enough to get a place.

  And if he could get past Miss DiGratia’s defensiveness, he might even teach her to shoot. She “understood the mechanism.” He laughed softly. Point and shoot. That’s what she needed to know.

  Upstairs, Carina pulled the bills from the carpetbag. There were few enough left, things coming, as Mae said, dear up here. She smiled at how she had improved Mr. Shepard’s price for the gun. His face showed he’d not expected it, but it was only one small part of all he owed her.

  Taking the money, she went down. Mae was nowhere to be seen, but the aroma of dinner filled the lower rooms. Stewed beef and potatoes. Always stewed beef and potatoes, though twice a week onions and carrots would be added, and once a week it was bear meat in the pot. Carina tried not to think about it.

  How she longed for the rich smells of sausage and spicy tomato sauce thick with basil and garlic and oregano. But no one else seemed to care. As soon as the sun dipped below the peaks, the men would come to eat. Like locusts.

  She stepped back out to the porch. “There you are, Mr. Shepard.” She handed him the money.

  “I prefer Quillan.” He took the bills and tucked them into his shirt pocket without counting. “Shepard’s only loaned to me.”

  Loaned? How could a name be loaned? Was it not passed down with pride, father to son, regardless of station? “Loaned, Mr. Shepard?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What were you called before it was loaned?”

  “Quillan.”

  Carina studied him, looking, as Papa would have said, under the skin. For a moment, she glimpsed something, but it was gone too soon. She felt as though she had intruded, and he’d put her out like a stray dog nosing where it didn’t belong.

  “Have you plans for supper?” A smile quirked his mouth. “Mr. Beck, perhaps?”

  Mocking again. Bene. “Mr. Beck is my employer.”

  He raised his eyebrows to that. But before he could respond, a crowd of miners drawn by the scent of food rounded the corner of the porch. They climbed the two low stairs and swarmed between them to the door. She recognized three of her fellow boarders, Elliot, Frank, and Joe Turner, whose room she had taken, but who now slept in the dead man’s bed. Each tipped his hat in turn.

  Four others she knew but couldn’t remember their names. The rest were strangers. When they had passed, she
found Quillan Shepard gone. Looking down the street, she saw him striding away, no doubt thinking already of the next business he would transact.

  Later that night Carina joined Mae at the sink. She rinsed and dried the dishes that Mae swabbed in the water, thick and cloudy with soap and the remains of the stew. How many plates had been filled and emptied? As there was no time to wash dishes during the meal, when the plates ran out, those waiting were served on the dishes already used. Carina would never eat unless she was in the first seating.

  Carina felt the grit beneath her boots. How long since the floor had been scrubbed? Why would Mae allow such filth in her own kitchen? Carina knew the mice came out at night and ate the scraps that fell. Their traces lined the floorboards. Did Mae not notice or care?

  Carina pulled a plate from the steaming rinse tub and wiped it. “I won’t need to use your pistol again. I bought a gun of my own.”

  “That’s what Quillan brought you?”

  Just Quillan. “Yes.” She stacked the plate and took up the next, the tips of her fingers smarting in the scalding water. “Why does he not have a second name?”

  “He has one. Just prefers not to use it.”

  “Why?”

  Mae shrugged, then hauled a stack of plates to the shelves and slid them into place. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Don’t know how he does it. Those long days on the wagon with no one but himself for company.”

  Long days alone. She pictured him walking away from the crowd. She pictured his smug smile. She didn’t want to picture him. She had wanted Mae to talk, to fill the silence. But Quillan Shepard would not have been her choice of topic. Carina turned the plate and dried the back side. “Why doesn’t he take a partner?”

  “Can’t say, really.” Mae slid the next plate into the rinse basin. “It’s not that he isn’t liked.”