“Now, wait a minute.” He leaned against the stall. “You said yourself half these things weren’t on your wagon—”
“Some were.”
“And I never said I could have them overnight.”
She raised her chin with a haughty scoff. “I should have known.”
What she needed more than anything was a shaking, but he was not the one to deliver it. Not if he wanted her cooperation. “Did you write up your list?”
“I can.” She held her condescending pose.
He pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and handed it over. “I’m not making any promises. But there’s an Italian in Fairplay who might have some of it. God knows where he gets the stuff and how he keeps it. But if you’re paying for my trouble, I’ll make the trip.”
She wrote the list, then handed it back to him. “How long?”
“I can be to Fairplay and back by late tonight.” He’d have to trade horses and leave his four in Fairplay.
She nodded. “That will do.”
Jack nuzzled her neck, and Quillan pushed him away. “Mind your manners, Jack.” It didn’t help at all to have the horse acting out what he only imagined.
She smiled into the horse’s forelock, stroking down the bony nose. “He remembers me.”
As if anyone could forget. “Well, I’d better hit the road if I’m going to make it back.”
She turned briefly to the gelding and caught his head between her hands. “Fly for me, Jack.”
To Quillan’s annoyance, the horse bobbed his head exactly as if he were accepting the mission.
Carina felt satisfied as she left Quillan Shepard to hitch his horses and start on her business. They hadn’t discussed cost, but she knew now he could be bargained with. It was a shame he had guessed her ploy. In fact the only things on the wagon were the jarred tomatoes, the olive oil, and the parmigiano cheese.
No, she’d had some packets of dried herbs as well, and she was fairly certain basil and mint and garlic had been among them. So that left only the eggs and butter and spinach and … she shook her head. Whatever he named, she would talk him down. Then soon—in the morning even—Mae’s kitchen would fill with the smells of rich Italian cooking.
Carina breathed the air, imagining the aroma of pungent garlic and tomatoes, the spicy basil, the unforgettable parmigiano … The sight of Berkley Beck across the street jarred her back to the present. She had forgotten. He would expect her to work tomorrow, the same as today. But if she did, when would she simmer the sauce, mix and roll the pasta, stuff and cut the ravioli, bake the bread?
Why hadn’t she thought of that before she commissioned Mr. Shepard’s business? And now Mae was expecting her to provide for the picnic. Carina squared her shoulders. There was no help for it. She would have to request the day off.
How Mr. Garibaldi had bellowed the only time she had dared make that request of him. He wanted to know if she were on her deathbed. If not, why could she not work? Eh? Eh? His fingers had smelled of garlic as he’d extended them toward her, demanding.
Surely Mr. Beck could be no worse than that. She crossed the street and met him in front of his office window. “Good morning, Mr. Beck.”
“Carina …” He cocked his head disapprovingly.
“Forgive me … Berkley.”
His smile spread like the keys on a piano, and he cut a pose in his fine beige gabardine suit and starched white shirt.
She could accomplish so much with one small gesture? Now was the time to strike. “I must make a request of you.”
“Oh?”
His smile took on a look of anticipation that both daunted and encouraged her. She would get her request, but what would he require in return? “I need the day off work tomorrow.”
“Oh?” he repeated, and his eyes went casually across the street to the livery from which she’d come. Quillan had just emerged with his horses in tow.
“I’m cooking for the picnic.” “What picnic?”
The question surprised her, and its sharpness. “Preacher Paine’s tent revival.”
“Ah.” He seemed suddenly relieved. “Yes, of course. The revival. It slipped my mind.”
“The wagons came by this morning. They only just passed.”
“Did they? I must have been buried in the newspaper.” He caught her elbow and turned her toward the office door.
Quillan passed them on the street as Berkley Beck led her inside. “Now then, you need the day free, you said?”
“It is a Saturday and—”
He raised a hand. “Carina, you have only to ask.” His hands folded across his chest as he studied her a moment. “Under ordinary circumstances I could deduct your daily wages, but our agreement is rather loose, isn’t it? Just consider it my generosity.”
Her chest tightened irrationally. “That’s kind, but I’ll be happy to make it up.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a gift.” He caught her hand and brought it slowly, effectively, to his lips. He was holding her captive by this gift and meant her to know it.
Carina wished now she had never started any of this. Mr. Beck was kind, but he expected too much. Her fingers stiffened in his hold. It was on her lips to say she would prefer to make up the hours, but she knew he would take offense. It was better to say nothing.
Though the discussion had ended and was not mentioned again, Carina felt uncomfortable throughout the day. How much easier it had been to take Mr. Garibaldi’s uproar. Then she had felt satisfied, vindicated even by the hours she shorted him. Now she felt … what? Concerned.
But why? Mr. Beck had been nothing but gracious, if a little overeager. By his goodness she had a roof and employment. And she had kept would-be suitors at bay before. Why now did she worry?
Berkley Beck stopped before her desk as she finished entering figures into the ledger. “Carina, I’ve noticed you have a fine hand and a good eye. Do you think you could duplicate this?” He held out a form with some detailing at the top and bottom.
She studied it a moment. Nothing too intricate. “I think so. Why?”
“You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that Crystal has no printing press. I could have these done easily if we had a press, but as it is, I need them reproduced manually. Unfortunately, the man I had for the job met with an accident. He broke his hand.”
Carina glanced up. “That makes it difficult.”
“Quite.”
“What are they?”
“Claim forms. Something I need immediately and constantly on hand.” He spread his hands helplessly. “You’ve seen the numbers of claims each day.”
She nodded. “I’ll try.”
His teeth flashed in his full smile. “Carina, I bless the day you arrived.” He reached for her hand, but she took up her pen and a clean sheet of paper. “Just set it there.” She indicated the space on her desk.
With a quirk of his lips, he laid down the paper but continued to hover.
She glanced up. “Did you want to watch?”
His mouth parted to answer, then closed again. With a slight bow of his head, he left her.
Her chest eased when the door closed behind him. Why so tense? She shook her head and started to copy the form. For a moment she wondered how the man who had made the copies before had broken his hand and how soon he would heal. Then she shrugged it off. Mr. Beck would find plenty for her to do. Already he was depending on her for more each day. She was secure in her position.
Making her way back to Mae’s at noon, Carina forgot some of her trepidation. She could see the tall poles of the tent rising up beyond the roofs, and she passed the boardinghouse and went on to the field where the revival would be. Was it foolish to see this Preacher Paine for herself? Could she watch it like a show, a booth at a fair?
She had heard once of a revivalist who used snakes. Did Preacher Paine do the same? Would it be like the fair in Argentina with the fire-eaters and contortionists? She cringed. No, it was better she send the ravioli with Mae. She turned back and met Èmie heading home fr
om the baths.
“I can’t stay.” Èmie squeezed her hands briefly. “I have to get Uncle Henri’s supper.”
“Come soon,” Carina called after her. “We’ll read.” She’d been delighted to learn Èmie appreciated good literature, though she owned no books at all. She doubted many in Crystal did. It was hardly a cultural center, in spite of Mae’s opinion. She was happy to share her own rescued books with her friend.
Carina watched Èmie’s back, straight and unbending as she hurried off to the small cabin she shared with her uncle. For a long moment she wondered what life was like for Èmie, working in the caves, then slaving for a grumpy old uncle.
Why didn’t she marry? There must be any number of miners willing. Perhaps Henri was unwilling to let her go. Carina frowned. That was unfair and unkind. Already it was late for Èmie. In Italy she would be past the age. With a shrug, Carina turned once again for Mae’s.
Quillan had pushed the horses harder than usual, though Jack seemed disarmingly willing. He made Fairplay in good time and sought out the Italian market he’d mentioned to Miss DiGratia. The proprietor, Emilio Lanza, sucked in his shriveled lips around his nearly toothless gums in his version of a grin as he looked over the list.
“For a lady?”
“Yeah.”
“She’ll wanta the best.”
Quillan didn’t doubt that for a minute. As the man puttered through heaps of cans and cloth wrapped wheels of cheese and jars of olives and tomatoes and strings of garlic, Quillan breathed in the scents. Whatever Miss DiGratia was planning with the things on her list, it would likely be an improvement over the fare of Crystal.
He noticed the storekeeper was choosing the largest jars and wheels and strings, piling high the travel crate. Quillan hadn’t asked amounts, nor had he arranged a cost or limits of any sort with Miss DiGratia. Rather than worry about it now, he made his way to the street to collect whatever else could be had for a deal to make this trip worthwhile. Somehow he suspected the profit he would make off Miss DiGratia would be less than prime.
Leaving his horses at the livery, he took the four replacements he usually used on the next leg down. This time he’d be heading back toward Crystal with Miss DiGratia’s load secured near the back, where it could be unloaded first when he reached town.
When he returned to the market, Mr. Lanza finagled the sale of a few extras that “the lady would not be able to resist.” Quillan succumbed without knowing why. He was not one to be outdealt. But he was shopping for Miss DiGratia this time, and unless he’d missed his mark, she would appreciate and pay for quality and service. Hadn’t she tried to buy him off from the start? Oh, she haggled and quibbled, but everything about her spoke money. Why shouldn’t some of it come his way? This was business. So why did the squat, smug-faced Italian look at him with that knowing grin? If he imagined some moonlight amoré …
“And for this—she willa kiss you.” Lanza held up a wheel of cheese pungent enough to draw wolves.
Quillan doubted very much Miss DiGratia would do any such thing, but he figured if she didn’t want that cheese, he could use it to keep the roughs at bay. He closed the deal before the man could sucker him further, then mounted the wagon box, slapped the reins, and settled in.
Shortly past dark, Carina heard the wagon creak to a halt outside of Mae’s. She closed her book, then hurried down the stairs and reached the door as Quillan set the brake. He jumped down into the circle of lantern light on Mae’s porch.
“Good, you’re handy,” was all his greeting.
Carina was too excited to care. “Did you get it all?”
“And more.” He made his way around the back and lowered the gate. “Maybe you can make your way through it and see what you need.”
Carina pressed in, drawn by the wonderful aromas emerging from the crates when he tugged the tarp free. Ah, Signore, cielo! It was heaven indeed. She fingered the papery garlic bulbs, then with a small cry lifted a wheel of Gorgonzola and pulled the wrapping back.
“I’m afraid that one’s not good anymore, but Lanza insisted you’d want it that way.”
Carina laughed. “It’s best with the blue veins. The more blue, the better.”
He raised his brows. “Well, that shows what I know.”
“There’s more here than I wanted, but I can’t let any of it pass. How much did you spend?”
His mouth pulled sideways. “You mean how much will it cost you?”
“Of course.” She waved a hand, but it irked her that he had so easily thwarted her. If she could have tricked him into naming his cost …
“I fetched the eggs and butter from another store. They were cheaper there.” He reached for a crate wedged in a little deeper where the eggs would be shielded from the worst of the jolts. He had purchased a full dozen.
Carina could hardly believe her good fortune. If he asked for the sky she would give it. But she fought hard to keep that from showing on her face. “How much for all of it?”
“Thirty-five dollars.”
The sky came falling down. “Thirty-five! That’s robbery!”
His brows lowered and his eyes flickered fiercely in the lantern light. She realized with a start what she had said. Did one accuse a robber of robbery? She had spoken without thinking, but thirty-five dollars … that would wipe her out.
He pulled a paper from his back pocket. “Look, this is what I paid for the goods.” He held out the receipt. “I had to board the horses and take on these four. Along with that, I lost a day on my regular schedule by coming back this way.”
She stared at the figures on the paper. It was impossible. He had been cheated. Didn’t he know the first thing about bargaining? The man must have been a Sicilian to get so much from Quillan Shepard.
“Not to mention breaking my back to get it all here tonight for you, Miss DiGratia.”
His point was taken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … only …” She sighed. “I can’t pay thirty-five dollars. That’s more than I have.” She hadn’t meant to say that. What concern was it of his? She pulled a single bottle of olive oil from the crate and ran her palm along its shape. “I’ll take only what I asked for.”
He stood silently with a surly expression as she picked through the crate for the items she’d requested. She laid each on the back gate of the wagon as she chose and examined it, then gathered them into a small pile. “How much for this?”
“What am I supposed to do with the rest?”
“There are others in town. Find a black-shawled nonna. She’ll buy.”
He jammed his fingers into his hair. “That’s more trouble than I need.” He yanked the crate to the edge and loaded her things back inside. “Take it all for thirty.”
Carina stared up at him. Even thirty she couldn’t do, but it stuck in her throat to say as much again. With Mr. Beck’s dollar a week she was scarcely putting anything by. Thirty would deplete her small reserve.
Quillan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Twenty and that’s my final offer.”
She shook her head. “Then you lose money.”
“I’ll make it up on the other things.”
“No.”
“Miss DiGratia, I’ve had a very hard day. I’d like to get some shut-eye. Now will you take this stuff before that cheese brings every dog in town?” Carina trembled. It was one thing to be indebted to Mr. Beck, another altogether with Quillan Shepard. But the truth was she coveted everything in the crate, things she’d not tasted since leaving her family. “Will you let me feed you?”
“Beg pardon?” His arms paused in their lifting.
“What I cook with this.” She waved her hand over the crate. “I’ll make your suppers.”
His face was inscrutable. “Well, I’m not here for most of my suppers. I’m on the road the better part of the week.”
“When are you here?”
His throat worked as though he hesitated to tell her. “Most Friday nights. Sometimes through the weekend.” He looked away. “Actually, it varies.�
�
“I’m making ravioli for the picnic. If you like it—”
“I won’t be here for the picnic. Tent revivals aren’t for me.”
Carina dropped her gaze to the wealth in the crate. If he would be stubborn, she should take it. It was his offer, after all.
He took hold of the crate. “I’ll carry it in for you while you fetch your money. Has Mae an icebox?”
“In the kitchen.” She stared at his back as he went inside, then realized he would be waiting for payment. Even twenty dollars was more than she should use. She’d had no idea it would come so dear. She hurried up the stairs and dug into the hidden compartment of her carpetbag for the last of her greenbacks.
Twenty dollars for a crate of food. She clutched the bills and wondered if she could part with so much. Then she pictured again the treasures he had brought her. Why had he brought more than she requested? For profit? Or because he guessed how pleased she would be? She suspected the first. But whichever the case, she must have that crate of wonders. Gripping the money, she went back down.
Quillan Shepard was in the kitchen making enough noise to wake the house, yet she heard Mae’s snoring through the wall of her bedroom. He had unloaded the crate on the board and set the small one that held the eggs in its place. The eggs were nestled in sawdust, and he fished them out, then brushed them off and laid them on a cloth. “Here’s the butter. Oh, all Lanza had was canned pureed spinach.” He motioned toward the cans, four of them.
She nodded, holding out the money. “I’ll cook again next Friday.”
He leaned on the board, looking tired. “I’ll think about it.” He lifted his hat and shook his hair back, then released a sharp breath and straightened. “Good night, Miss DiGratia.”
“Good night, Mr. Shepard.”
He turned at the door. “Quillan.”
Her throat felt tight as she watched him walk out. He had given her a piece of home. Not given, sold. But not for what he wanted. Without even trying, she had cut him down to nearly half his price. What a victory! Why didn’t it feel that way?
Quillan kicked the dirt of the street. How could he have so misjudged things? Just because she came from privilege didn’t mean she’d brought wealth with her. Oh, she could be duping him, but if she had the money, she was a consummate liar. Watching her fondle, then part with the things she hadn’t ordered was more than he could stomach. Still, he was a fool to take it in the teeth that way.
The Rose Legacy Page 19
