“And you’d know nothing about that.”
Carina opened her mouth, but Mae had caught her squarely. Had not stubbornness and injured pride brought her to Crystal? No. It was heartbreak and … hope? Was hope, as Quillan said, only for fools?
Quillan reached for the gun holstered by his bed. “Who is it?” The voice was unrecognizably thick and muffled.
“Who?”
“D.C.”
Quillan swung his legs over and strode to the opening of his tent, gun in hand. He pushed the flap open. “D.C.! What have you done?”
“Nothing. Can I come in?” “What’s that in your nose?”
D.C. pawed the swollen flesh. “Cloth. Some woman shoved it there.”
“Woman?”
D.C. scowled. “At Mae’s. Some woman at Mae’s.”
Carina DiGratia. “She did this to you? Broke your nose?” Quillan wouldn’t put it past her, though why D.C.’s and not his own he couldn’t say.
D.C. shook his head and sank into the caned chair. “It wasn’t her.” He dropped his face into his hands and sobbed. “They took the money. They took Daddy’s money. I didn’t even spend one cent of it. They took it all.”
Quillan went cold inside. Part of him wanted to punch D.C. himself, part of him seethed at the roughs who preyed on the men of Crystal. Even those like D.C. who almost deserved it. It had to stop. “How much was it?”
“I don’t know. I never counted it. I never touched it, not since I put it in my pocket.” He groaned. “I can’t go back.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. Cain would add broken ribs to your broken nose.”
D.C. hung his head. “I wish he would.”
“Wouldn’t get the money back. Only one way to do that.”
“How?” D.C. looked up at him exactly as Cain’s mottled dog did.
“Work. You work for it.”
“But how?” D.C. spread his hands. “If I go back to the mine …”
“No. You’ve taken your stand. Now keep to it. You can work for me.” Quillan tossed a rolled blanket to the floor of the tent. “Get some sleep. In the morning you learn the freighting business.”
TWELVE
A single moment of joy can slake the throat of a dying spirit. An act of kindness, no matter how small, becomes a mercy drop from heaven.
—Rose
AS SHE WALKED TO Mr. Beck’s office the next morning, Carina was surprised to see the boy she had tended seated high on Quillan Shepard’s wagon. She stopped on the walk and stared. The daylight was less kind to the young man than the lamp had been. His nose was enormous, his eyes masked with blue swellings. He sat slouched and sullen, but whole.
He did not look up from the reins to see her, but Quillan Shepard did. His face was set, offering her nothing, not even his anger. But she knew it was there. Beneath his mask of indifference was the bitter fury that had frightened her so. She turned into the office, suddenly eager to see what work Mr. Beck had left her.
Closing the door brought instant relief. Mr. Beck’s desk was cluttered as though he had tossed the papers there, then shuffled them about with his hands. Maybe he’d searched for something before leaving and had no time to put them in order. But then, maybe he had considered it her job to bring order. She sighed and took her seat.
Thankfully, she had the next few days to herself. What was it Quillan had said? “You read only the dates?” Perhaps it was time she learned better what it was Berkley Beck did. She took up the first page and started to read. It was tedious language at best, and after four or five pages, she lost interest. Better to file them and be done.
After the first several miles, D.C. was squirming on the box. Quillan wasn’t surprised. A youth like that would chafe every mile of solitude. But it might give him the chance to think. Quillan could hardly blame him not wanting to be shut away from the sun day in and day out.
No wonder he was pallid and whining. Who could want to spend his life in a hole? Still, there were lessons for D.C. to learn, like appreciating what Cain had tried to do for him. It wasn’t easy raising the boy alone, him coming so late in their lives that the mother had died in the birthing. What man could be father and mother both?
Quillan saw D.C. wince at the bump of the wagon but said nothing. It was for the kid to mention if he needed to. It was time he learned to be a man. Quillan hadn’t planned to be the one to teach him, but it seemed to have fallen out that way. He supposed it was good D.C. had come to his tent last night. It would have broken Cain’s heart to see him.
Quillan frowned. Somehow, some way, the lawlessness had to be stopped. But how? Marshal O’Neal had resigned the position. His constables ran the other way when it came to trouble with the roughs, and none of the miners seemed willing to stick their necks out and make themselves a target. If no one stepped up, there would be no opposition to the roughs at all.
But Miss DiGratia had stepped up. She had gone out into the dark and fetched D.C. inside for doctoring. He’d gotten the whole story last night from D.C.’s point of view, which probably wasn’t far from the truth, especially her sharp tongue. They ought to elect her marshal and let her scold the roughs out of town.
He chuckled to himself, and D.C. looked over with a questioning brow raised.
“Just drive, D.C. Just drive.”
Carina blew the straggling hair off her forehead and laid down the last paper in a neat stack. After lunch she would file them, now that they were sorted and the corresponding leaves put together. She pushed back the chair and stood, but her skirt snagged on the floor and pulled her back down.
She bent beneath the desk and freed it from the loose board that slapped back into place. No wonder Mr. Beck lost his pen nibs in the crack. The board had lost its nail. She held her skirt free and stood.
Her stomach was hungry enough for even Mae’s fare. And they had begun a habit of lunching together, as few of the men came in for the noon meal. Most took the remains of their breakfast in packs to hold them until dinner. That left Mae and Carina to share a quiet, leisurely meal, her favorite of the day.
She met Èmie on the corner of Drake and Central. Though she had no intention of immersing herself in Crystal’s social life, she had developed a fondness for Èmie Charboneau. She couldn’t help pitying her, living with the dour, cross uncle and working in the hot springs. “Have you left your cave?”
Èmie nodded. “I snuck away. If Uncle Henri knew, he’d send me back directly. But I can’t spend every minute in there. Some days I think I might as well be a miner.”
Carina pictured the dark bath caves, the narrow tunnel between. She almost smelled the sulfur steam and heard the trickling on the walls. “At least your tunnel is clean.”
“True. But it’s dark and dank. I wish the springs opened to the air.”
Carina caught her arm. “Come with me for lunch with Mae.”
“I don’t have money for it.”
“You’ll be my guest.”
Èmie shrugged. “The worst she can do is throw me out.”
“She won’t. She likes too well to have the dishes washed for her while she dozes in the sun.”
Èmie held out ragged hands. “I know well enough how to wash dishes.”
“Then come along. Your sink awaits.” The day that had started ruefully with the sight of Quillan Shepard and the damaged boy had suddenly grown bright. Carina looked upward. How had she taken for granted the brilliant blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun? She thought of Èmie sneaking away just to breathe the air outside, worrying her uncle might find out. Her heart moved for her friend. Yes, her friend.
“I think we should picnic,” Carina stated. Èmie needed the sunshine, the brisk mountain air. When they reached the kitchen door, Carina pulled it open. “Mae, we have a sun swept canopy we can’t waste. We must eat outside today.”
Mae looked askance, then shrugged. “It’s no skin off my nose. Eat wherever you like.”
But Carina caught her arm. “You must join us. Just listen to the birdsong
.”
“That’s a crow’s caw.”
But Carina tugged, and Mae carried their plates outside. Sitting together with Mae and Èmie on the back stoop after eating, Carina talked, pouring out her family history, her memories. She told tales of her brothers’ escapades with skilled artistry, making them larger than life until Èmie’s eyes shone. She spoke of Papa’s work, his rise in Italy, his move to Argentina and on up to California, his importance in the community, yet his generosity and compassion.
“Not only does he doctor the people who can pay generously, but also those who bring only a loaf of bread or nothing at all. He takes his oath to heart and refuses care to no one. He is a great man.”
She spoke of Mamma’s beauty. “Even after seven children she is shapely, and that’s no easy thing with such brutes of brothers as mine. Tony was the size of a young ox at birth. Mama called me a runt, coming after that. But either way, she was back in her skirts in weeks. She is the envy of all the aunts, as beautiful now as she was when Papa chose her.” That wasn’t strictly true, but very nearly.
“That’s where you get it, then.” Èmie smiled shyly. “My own mother was plain like me, but gentle and warm. I always remember how warm …” Her eyes brightened suddenly with tears.
Surprised, Carina wrapped an arm about Èmie’s waist, and they rested their heads together. Mae wore a distant look, thinking perhaps of family, perhaps of Mr. Dixon. “Family’s important. Sometimes I wish I’d had one.”
Èmie sniffed. “Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.”
Carina suddenly ached so strongly for her loved ones she squeezed Èmie. “We must be family to each other.” Fervent tears stung her eyes. She needed it so much.
Mae laughed. “Will you look at us? And in plain sight of God and all the world.”
But Èmie and Carina held each other tightly. Carina raised her face to the sky. “Let them see. We are women. We are not meant to be alone.”
That evening, Carina took some of Mae’s load as her own. After keeping Mr. Beck’s business through the day, she ate with the men, then scrubbed the tables and benches and swept the floors. The next morning before she went to Mr. Beck’s office, she rubbed down the woodwork, chasing the never ending dust. Mae told her neither yea nor nay but accepted the help with silent gratitude.
And as they lunched in Mae’s parlor, Carina was rewarded by Mae’s own tales. How different they were, her stories of life in the camps and gullies she’d prospected. “Then there was the time winter surprised us in June. We were at the front of our provisions, so there wasn’t much chance of starving. But mine was the only cabin, as I was the only woman. It took about two hours of blizzard before the men abandoned their chivalry and packed in with me. Didn’t even need a fire, there was so much body heat inside my walls.” Mae’s buttery voice warmed at the telling.
“Each one had a pretty apology for barging in, but not a one offered to leave, even when night fell. That was in a time when getting caught with a fellow after dark meant disgrace or matrimony.” She glanced at Mr. Dixon’s picture on the wall. “I told them they’d have to ante up to see which one would get me, but they just guffawed and said, ‘Heck, ma’am, we’ll all marry you.’ ”
Carina’s eyes widened.
“That made forty husbands, and what would the Mormons think of that? ‘Course, not a one of them meant it, and I knew it and they knew it, and we all had a good laugh and spent the night warm and chaste. No, there was only one man for me, and him not much in some eyes. But that’s how it is. The heart sees what the eyes miss.” Her voice caressed the portrait of her plain husband.
“But listen to me going on.” Mae pushed her plate aside. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve bewitched me.”
Carina spread her hands. “There’s no magic here.”
“Maybe not. But that’s the most I’ve carried on in years.”
Carina smiled. “Carry on, Mae. It’s good for the soul.”
When Mae laughed deep in her chest, Carina laughed, too. She felt a lightness inside that she hadn’t known since arriving. And the lines on Mae’s face seemed to smooth and lessen. Her labored breath came easier, and Carina wondered if she truly had worked some magic on the woman.
Only that night, when she trimmed the lamp and lay down in the darkness, did the aching loss return. Oh, Flavio. And when she slept, she dreamed her heart was an eye watching Flavio caress Divina’s face and bury his fingers in her hair.
Wednesday morning, as Carina worked at the small desk across from Berkley Beck, she noticed his glances. He had watched her all morning since his return last night—not blatantly, but not furtively, either. It made her realize how much she’d enjoyed the days without him. Why? Was he not the first in Crystal to help her, to show her kindness?
She glanced up and her eyes met Mr. Beck’s. He made no move to look away. Instead, leaning back in his chair, he tapped his lips with his pen. “Forgive me, Miss DiGratia. Nowhere in my absence did I find anything so pleasant to gaze upon.”
“Mr. Beck, you turn a shameless compliment.”
He smiled. “If only it furthered my suit.”
She returned his smile but gave her attention to her work.
His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “By the way, did you find what you were looking for?”
She raised her brows in query.
“The Placerville records.”
“Oh.” She had tried not to think of that, still quaking when she recalled Quillan’s anger. She gave a small shrug. “Nothing important.”
“What if I were to tell you Quillan Shepard has things to hide?”
Did he think her blind as well as foolish? But her curiosity quickened, anyway. “Why would you do that, Mr. Beck?”
His smile was genuine this time, amused. “Why indeed, Miss DiGratia. Suffice it to say, there are things Quillan Shepard and I don’t see eye to eye on.”
That was hardly surprising. Quillan Shepard had said the same, though less politely. But she was intrigued in spite of herself, and it must have shown because Mr. Beck continued.
“What if I told you he was wanted for robbery?”
Her mouth dropped slack. Robbery? She pictured the flash of Quillan’s gun severing the snake’s head, heard the single report that did the job without error. So he was a pirate, an outlaw. She had not expected that, not with Mae singing his praises and a priest guarding his story, and he, Quillan Shepard, conducting himself like the king of Sardinia.
“You see, I did a little checking on my own the days I was gone.”
“That was your business?”
“No.” Mr. Beck laughed lightly. “I merely took the opportunity while I was about my business to aid you in yours.”
“How can he come and go if he’s a wanted man? Why doesn’t someone stop him, arrest him?”
Mr. Beck stood and walked around his desk. “The warrant is old. And it’s issued in the Wyoming Territory. Besides, more than a handful of the men in Crystal could boast likewise. Places like this draw the unlawful.”
Carina’s breath seeped out from slightly parted lips. And she had been alone with him. What might he have done when she angered him so? Her heart hammered her chest at the thought. “But if you know …”
Mr. Beck leaned forward, pressing his palms to her desk in a familiar manner, as though they were old friends, family. “I just think it might prove mutually beneficial for us to … share information.”
The thought frightened her, especially recalling Quillan’s anger at her prying. “I only learned that he was born in Placerville to Wolf and Rose, and that—”
“What!”
Carina had been about to say that he was orphaned, but Mr. Beck’s whole demeanor had changed, sharpened.
“Did you say Wolf?” The black pupils inside his blue eyes seemed to widen.
Carina nodded, certain now there was some dark secret in Quillan’s past.
Berkley Beck pushed off her desk and straightened. “So.” He tapp
ed his chin with the side of his index finger. “So.” He was no longer speaking to her. “This is better than I hoped.”
“What is? What does it mean?”
“More than you guess, Miss DiGratia.”
“But—”
“We’ll leave it for now.”
Carina spread her hands. “I don’t understand.”
“No. But you don’t need to. Not yet.”
What was he saying? Why the secrets? Did he think to protect her? Had she learned more than she knew? Told more than she should? Why did she feel so uncomfortable?
“Miss DiGratia, do you have plans for tonight?”
His change of subject surprised and annoyed her. “No, Mr. Beck.” Innate in that “no” was her refusal of what would come next. She was not here to be courted.
He cocked his chin and eyed her over his shoulder. “Then I’d advise you to stay inside. As you may have heard, Crystal has a new city marshal, Donald McCollough.”
Again she was confused. She had heard the former head of the police had resigned, but what did the election of a new marshal mean to her?
“Trust me, my dear, and don’t go out tonight. I assure you it’s best.”
He knew things he wasn’t telling. But from the look on his face, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She turned back to the papers on her desk.
He lingered a moment. “If you should learn something more about Quillan Shepard, it would be safer to bring it to me than elsewhere.”
“Shouldn’t the new marshal know he’s wanted for robbery?”
“My dear Miss DiGratia. Two weeks is scarcely long enough for you to understand the workings of a city like Crystal. But for your benefit and your safety, I’d recommend you not rely too heavily upon the marshal, whoever holds the office.”
His voice was gentle, reassuring. Trust me, Carina DiGratia. Trust me. She almost heard his unspoken thoughts. She didn’t understand, but what choice did she have? Mr. Beck was in a position to get her what she wanted, to restore her property and provide the means for her to support herself. If it came to choosing sides, she would take the man who fought for her rights over the one who discarded them like her wagon over the side of the mountain.
The Rose Legacy Page 15
