The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  With a sigh, he slid his fingers free. The hunger left his face and turned it gray. “Carina.” His voice scratched and he swallowed hard. “I admit I lost my heart to you the moment you walked into my office. How could I not when I looked up from the floor into the face of an angel?”

  The sincerity was back in his eyes. Her muscles went slack. She could believe him.

  “Have you never been in love?” His voice begged understanding.

  In love? she thought. Most of my life, Mr. Beck. But she wouldn’t tell him so. “I’m not here to be won.”

  He laughed painfully, waving his hand with forced carelessness. “Yes, I know. It is your sole desire to be my clerk.” He pronounced it “clark” like an Englishman.

  “I—”

  He raised a hand. “Spare it, my dear. I’ve acted abominably.”

  Carina’s throat tightened. She was unversed in courtship, knowing only Flavio, who wore his heart like a banner. Yet hadn’t he also had his dark moods? Times she couldn’t penetrate his thoughts? Had he not also worn that look of hunger more than once? Could she forgive Berkley Beck when she could not forgive her one love? But she put on the best face she could.

  Mr. Beck drew a shaky breath. “I believe the storm is clearing. You’d best go.”

  Though the rain still fell from bruised and swollen skies, Carina made her way to Mae’s, thankful to be away from Mr. Beck. His intentions had been all too clear. Or had the storm made him say and do things he normally wouldn’t have? Papa said a shock from lightning could affect the brain. One man who’d been struck had walked around for three days thinking he was someone else.

  With the way their hair had stood out and the tingle in the air, she could well believe the storm had done likewise to Mr. Beck. She pressed her eyes closed. Thank goodness he came to his senses when he did. Carina stopped suddenly at the sight of Èmie huddled at the side of Mae’s house. What was she doing standing there in the rain? “Èmie!”

  Èmie startled, then looked quickly behind her. With a swift motion, she beckoned.

  Che ora? What now? She hurried to Èmie’s side. “What is it? Why are you out in the rain?”

  Èmie gripped her arm, the long fingers strong in their need. “Something bad is going to happen.”

  The words chilled Carina more than the rain soaking into her skin. Had everyone gone crazy? Had Preacher Paine loosed all of hell on Crystal with his parting? “What? What is happening?”

  Èmie shook her head. “I only know Uncle Henri is part of it. And Father Antoine is gone. He left this morning.” She sagged. “No one else will stop Uncle Henri.”

  “Stop him from what?”

  “I don’t know. Only that he’s been paid—a lot. I saw the money.”

  Carina shrugged. “Maybe he found good ore.”

  Èmie shook her head. “He only pretends to mine. He hasn’t brought ore out of his hole in months.”

  “Then how do you live?”

  “I make some at the baths.” Èmie licked the rain from her lip and laid her soul bare. “Uncle Henri … steals.”

  Carina gasped. “He is one of the roughs?”

  Èmie pressed her eyes closed. “He picks pockets. When the mine played out, Father Antoine tried to help us, but Uncle Henri won’t have it. He forbade me to take one cent from the priest. And in truth, Father Antoine hardly has a cent to spare. I bring home every dime, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” Èmie pressed her hands to her face.

  Carina stroked her arm. “It’s not your fault.” How could she have imagined Èmie so serene and complacent? It never occurred to her that Èmie faced something like this. Suddenly she felt angry, angry with an uncle who would torture the soul of someone as pure and selfless as Èmie Charboneau. “Why don’t you leave him?”

  Èmie opened tear-filled eyes. “When I was very small my parents died. Uncle Henri found me alone and terrified. He wrapped me in his coat and carried me to his home. He didn’t know how to care for me, but he did.

  By the time I discovered what kind of man he was, I already owed him so much. You may not believe it, but I love him. I hurt for him. And Father Antoine and I made a pact that neither of us would give up on Uncle Henri. Inside … inside he wants to be good.”

  Carina shook her head. How could Èmie be so naive?

  “But now I’m afraid for him.”

  “Why do you think he’s been paid? Maybe he stole the money.”

  Èmie suddenly gripped her shoulders, no longer the tall, stoic girl, but a woman shaken. “They’ve bought him!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s getting drunk, mean drunk, ugly drunk. And he’s mumbling about doing their dirty work. I’m scared.”

  Carina looked off in the direction of Èmie’s cabin. Hadn’t Èmie said she didn’t fear God’s wrath? But this was not God’s wrath; it was man’s. And she felt Èmie’s need. “Stay here tonight. You’ll share my cot.”

  Èmie’s chest moved up and down. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Carina sent her gaze down the rain-soaked street to the marshal’s office near the end. She knew what had happened that night in the street, knew the marshal had been beaten. She knew also what Berkley Beck had said, to bring her concerns to him. She could hardly do that now. Not after what had transpired between them. “We’ll tell the marshal what you know. He can stop it.”

  Èmie resisted. “I can’t, Carina. He’s my uncle.”

  “Don’t you want him stopped?” But she saw Èmie’s dismay. She couldn’t betray Uncle Henri even for his own sake.

  Carina drew herself up. “I’ll go.” When Èmie’s grip relaxed, Carina freed herself. “Here’s my key. Go inside.” She wasn’t certain what she could tell the marshal, but she stalked through the rain to the dreary police building.

  The single lamp shed a sooty light on the front office. The cell in the back was walled of stone, but the ceiling was sod, dripping now onto the packed dirt floor. It smelled like a cave. The front office was clapboard with a lone window that let in what dismal daylight there was. A man sat hunched in the leather chair, one eye swollen shut, his arm in a sling, and a gash on the side of his head that was beginning to fester.

  With one look at him, the words died in Carina’s throat. She would get no help here, but at least she would try. “Marshal McCollough?”

  He laughed, a hoarse, choking laugh that went on and on. “Donald McCollough here.” He patted his chest at last. “But marshal? That, lassie, is a myth.”

  She felt angry and sorry for him at once. “I have a complaint to make. Or rather a concern.”

  He just sat there as though he hadn’t heard. What could she say? Could she tell him Èmie’s fears? Something bad might happen. You must act, must stop it. She couldn’t bear to see him sit there looking more helpless than she felt.

  Turning on her heel, Carina went back out into the rain. Her hair was a wet mass already, the ends dripping down her skirts. The street was rushing mud, and she held up the denim to step off the stoop to the boardwalk, then cried out when a rough hand gripped her arm and swung her around.

  “What do you want with the marshal, woman?”

  Her heart jumped to her throat as she looked into the face of the scarred Carruther, his lip drawn up more than ever like a cur. Blood rushed in her ears and no sound would come as he shook her hard, demanding, “What did you want!”

  She tried to scream, but he had literally scared the breath from her. She fought to break free, but his strength was brutish. His horrible animal smell washed over her as they closed in combat.

  “Let her go.” A voice broke through her panic, but she continued to fight, her shoulders wrenching and twisting.

  Abruptly, the huge paws released her, and she staggered, then turned and rushed to the outstretched hands Mr. Beck offered like a rope in a tempest. What madness, running to him for safety after just … But his face was firm now, detached, showing none of his earlier emotion.

  Still, her h
eart thumped within her chest, and she realized Beck was waiting for some explanation. At last her voice came. “Èmie’s uncle is drunk. She’s afraid for her safety.”

  Berkley Beck’s expression eased. He cupped her hands between his, then looked past her head to the huge Carruther. “This woman is in my care. Any man who accosts her in any way will answer to me. Is that understood?”

  To her amazement, the brute nodded and turned away exactly as a hound might obey his master after laying a rabbit at his feet. Did Berkley Beck wield such power? If so, he was the one to help them. He could do more than the wretched man who wore the marshal’s badge. As if reading her thoughts, he met her eyes boldly.

  “I told you it was useless to go to the law.”

  “I see that now.”

  “You should have come to me.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  He held up a hand. “I understand. But tell me again what the trouble is.”

  “Èmie’s uncle …”

  “Oh yes. He’s drunk.” Mr. Beck’s expression was noncommittal. “Men get drunk. Èmie’s uncle is no exception, nor is this the first time she’s seen him so. Why run for help now?”

  “She’s afraid he’ll do something terrible.”

  “Like what?”

  Carina shook her head. “I don’t know. She thinks he’s been paid to … to do something.”

  He didn’t answer at once, just led her down the boardwalk and under the streaming roofs. Then he spoke in carefully measured words. “You understand how preposterous that sounds.”

  It was true. “I know that, but …”

  “Carina, the marshal can hardly go about arresting everyone who might do something terrible. Until a crime is committed, he has no power over a free citizen. He can’t act on someone’s fears alone.”

  “But Henri Charboneau has money.”

  “He’s a thief.”

  She stared a moment. Was there nothing Mr. Beck didn’t know?

  He walked her along briskly, turning the corner at Drake. “If you’re concerned, keep Èmie with you. I’ll see what can be done about the rest.”

  “Can you do something?”

  “I assure you I can. At the very least I’ll see that no harm comes to Èmie.” He spoke with such confidence, such knowing. How could he be sure, when men like the Carruthers roamed the streets? But then, he had cowed the huge Carruther with words alone. Mr. Beck was more than he seemed. But could she trust him? He stopped her at the boardinghouse steps and faced her squarely, every bit the man she had first put her faith in.

  “Carina, I know I behaved poorly. And I understand your hesitance in seeking me out. But I trust you understand now that I’m your best hope. Surely you have seen how capable I am of seeing to your safety, my dear. You would do well to consider my affection.”

  His narrow face was earnest, the eyes neither angry nor demanding. How could she have thought he would force her? Or was he a chameleon changing colors to suit the moment? She drew a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

  By his lowered brows, that was not the answer he’d hoped for. Her arm dropped to her side as he released her hand, tipped his derby with a flick to its brim, and walked away. She looked up into the storm-torn sky and felt a few scattered raindrops on her face. The storm had worn itself out and turned its face away like a woman who rages, then can’t remember why.

  “You got a burr in your hide?”

  Quillan turned and realized he’d left Cain some distance behind. The ground around the Boundless was rough and broken, rutted from the new rain, and the slag was treacherous for a one-legged man with a crutch. “Sorry, Cain.”

  “What’s your rush, anyhow? You think I’ll stick a shovel in your hand and say dig?”

  “It wouldn’t do you any good.” Quillan looked back at the hole bored into the hillside. His aversion to it was almost as strong as D.C.’s, though with less reason. He’d not spent one day working a mine with pick, shovel, or even pan. He didn’t know the backbreaking labor or the mind-numbing effect of the darkness, the still, heavy weight of the mountain all around. Nor would he.

  “I see it in you. The same gold-grubbing greed of your father.” My father’s a preacher. “Your real father, idiot. Your savage father. You’re no more Mr. Shepard’s son than you are mine. Your father was a savage, your mother a harlot. And you’re the worst of them both.”

  If for nothing more than to prove her wrong, Quillan would never work a gold mine. He’d come up here only to satisfy Cain, to have a look at the hole he was now half owner of, worthless as it was. The rain and ground water would have kept them out of it anyway. But Cain wanted to make sure none of the new shoring had washed away.

  D.C. and his partners had done well enough with that, and it held soundly. Now Quillan was ready to go. But he hadn’t meant to move so fast he caused Cain difficulty.

  “Ain’t she a purty sight?”

  Quillan looked again at the gap in the hill. “I don’t know, Cain.”

  “She’s gonna make you rich, don’t ya know.”

  Quillan didn’t answer. It was too close to the real thing. Did investing in a mine count as gold-grubbing—even if he didn’t work it? Was there gold greed in him? Didn’t he hoard his savings just the same as if it were gold nuggets he guarded at the end of a rifle?

  No. He worked for that money. Honest labor. Diligence. And thrift. He swallowed the sourness from his throat. “Come on. It’s getting on to dark.”

  Cain shrugged the crutch back under his shoulder. “I know D.C.’s determined to stand his ground, and I know you’re not for working her yourself, but there’s silver in that hill. I feel it calling.”

  Again Quillan kept silent. Gold. Silver. It amounted to the same thing. He wouldn’t touch either.

  Cain stared at the hillside. “It’s there, and I’m gonna find it.”

  He wouldn’t call Cain a fool. For all he knew, the old man might be right. It just didn’t matter. He’d bought in to help Cain save face, nothing more. They reached the wagon, and he helped Cain aboard. Then he walked around with a pat to Jock’s neck. He’d made a quick run to Fairplay yesterday and returned to Crystal this afternoon with his horses.

  He didn’t admit to himself that it was partly to take advantage of Miss DiGratia’s offer. He couldn’t seem to keep it straight that he meant to avoid her. How could he, if he needed to learn what she knew? From the livery, he’d seen her leaving Beck’s office in the rain and almost said something, then turned for his tent instead. That’s when Cain had halooed him to go have a look at the mine.

  But something nagged at him, something in the way she’d moved, almost as though fleeing. That was ridiculous. She couldn’t hate her job that much, even if it entailed working for Berkley Beck. He was just jumpy. The storm probably, the charged sky that left everything feeling more intense.

  Jock noticed it, too. Still, he felt an uneasiness inside that made his step quicken and his hand eager on the reins. Beside him, Cain whistled a tune. Quillan wished he could be more like that, taking in the moment, savoring it even.

  He turned to Cain. “Where’s D.C.?”

  Cain shook his head. “Went off with that threesome of hellions he calls friends.”

  Quillan didn’t make a judgment. D.C.’s moral conduct wasn’t his responsibility as long as it didn’t directly hurt Cain. He hadn’t taken D.C. with him this time, since he’d known when he started out it was a quick turnaround. Maybe he should have, given the frown between Cain’s brows.

  “Alan’s hankering for some checkers. Why don’t I leave you at the livery?”

  Cain rubbed his palm over his crutch. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Don’t think I can sit.”

  “What’s got you so worked up?”

  Quillan turned Jock onto Main and flicked the reins. “I don’t know. Just a feeling inside.”

  Cain sighed. “If you were on talking terms with the Almighty, you might better understand those urges.”

  Quilla
n didn’t want to go down that road again—it was the one place Cain seemed intent on rubbing raw. He pulled Jock up to the livery and jumped down, then led the horse inside. Alan Tavish tousled the head of the boy who mucked stalls and sent him off with his pennies. Quillan walked around and helped Cain down to the packed dirt floor. He raised a hand to both men, then left them.

  Outside, the gray-shrouded evening drew on. Even though the mud-thickened street was once again crawling and honky-tonk plinked from the saloon doorways, there was a heaviness in the air, almost a collectively held breath. In anticipation of what?

  EIGHTEEN

  Death is a wily opponent, sneaking up on the unwary, yet eluding the deserving.

  —Rose

  CARINA WOKE TO Èmie’s screaming in the morning half-light. They were pressed into each other on the cot, and Èmie’s large bones were rigid with fear. Rolling over, Carina shook her. “Stop. Èmie, stop.” She shook her harder.

  Èmie shot up with a sharp exhale. “Something’s happened.”

  Carina had slept poorly, squeezed between Èmie and the hard edge of the cot. She was in no mood for hysterics. She waved a hand in annoyance. “If it’s happened, it’s happened. What good to scream about it?” At Èmie’s stricken look, Carina felt remorseful. “You were dreaming. Your uncle is probably sick in his head and won’t show his face today.” She slid from the cot and stretched out the kinks, then looked out at the gloomy dim of an overcast sky. “You ought to be a rooster. Only a rooster would know it’s morning already.”

  Èmie was silent, sitting stiff and unmoving, very like she’d been when Carina first saw her. The thin braid that hung down her back was only slightly mussed, and Carina examined her own. Stray wisps were everywhere, dangling beside her face, curling from last night’s rain. “Come. We’ll wash and eat.”

  Èmie sat still, unbudged.

  Dio, give me patience. “Èmie …”

  “I don’t want to see it.”

  “See what?” Carina brushed the wisps from her face.