The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “What are you doing?”

  English, but still he wasn’t sure she recognized him. “I need to fix your shoulder. It’s out of joint.”

  She started moaning as soon as the pressure was removed. He worked swiftly, pulling down the canvas jacket so he could see the shoulder where the blouse was torn through. She cried and struggled. Without warning he jerked the arm, and she screamed, then closed her eyes, gasping as the pain subsided.

  Easing her from the wall, he pulled the jacket back around her. It was adequate to keep her dry, but not so effective against the cold. At ten thousand feet in the cool of evening, his own wool flannel shirt, which he now put back on was hardly adequate. But between them … Well, propriety had no place in survival. He sank down against the wall and pulled her close to his side, careful not to jar her shoulder.

  She didn’t open her eyes. In her shocked state, the night chill could be enough to finish her off. But with his arm around her neck and his own body heat tight against her, he just might get her through. Her mouth had lost the tight, pinched look of pain, and he knew he’d brought her some ease at least. Her lips were full and slack. There cherries grow which none may buy, till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry …

  He allowed himself the moment. After all, he was a man, and she … well, only a fool would hold her close and not be moved to poetry. Thankfully he was too bone-tired to act on anything. His eyes closed on their own. His knee throbbed and his leg was shaking again. He’d be stiff in the morning. Morning. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to sleep.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I am lost and despair of being found.

  —Rose

  CARINA FELT THE RHYTHM of breath, heard its sound in her ear. First, she thought it was Divina as they nestled together in their bed when they were small, sometimes back to back, sometimes arms entwined. But there was something masculine in this breathing, and consciousness seeped in.

  Her eyes flickered open to a beard-roughened jaw. Brown hair, dull with mud, lay across the shoulder where her own head rested. She felt his warmth.

  In her sleep, she had been thankful for that warmth, clinging to it, absorbing it. To continue so in the first light of morning was vergognoso. Disgraceful. Yet she seemed unable to move away, and she realized his arm was around her shoulders, holding her close to him. It was that weight she had struggled with in waking.

  His eyes opened. Quillan Shepard’s slate gray eyes, blending to a charcoal ring that added definition and depth. The lids were lined with black lashes and the brows had a slight peak before cutting darkly toward his temples. She had never seen his eyes close enough to study their shape and color, and suddenly she realized what she did. He was awake! Her breath caught sharply.

  He half smiled. “It can’t be much worse than yourself.”

  What was he saying? Why did he taunt? She didn’t understand the innuendoes, the irony. And then she did. She brought a hand to her face, felt the grime, her own matted hair. She looked swiftly around. Where were they?

  “No, it’s not home.” His mouth had a rascal’s tilt. He pulled his arm away and scrubbed his face with his palms, then held his head a moment, elbows resting on knees. He groaned a little as he stretched, then pulled himself to his feet. One leg wouldn’t bear his weight, and he limped a few steps back and forth, wincing with the effort.

  Carina watched him, unsure how she came to be in a mine tunnel with Quillan Shepard. Maybe she dreamed it. Maybe she was in the shaft still, and this was delirium. She pressed into the wall in case the darkness yawned somewhere out of her deluded sight. But if she dreamed, why was it Quillan Shepard her mind conjured?

  He stopped pacing and reached a hand to her. She hesitated, not sure she dared take hold. What if it was some demon luring her over the edge? Her head spun at the thought. But the hand remained extended toward her. She reached up, and his grip was firm and real. He raised her to her feet and released her immediately.

  “Can you walk?”

  She quickly assessed her strength, noticing the earlier unbearable pain in her shoulder was now a dull throb. “How do you think I got here?”

  Again the half grin. “How do you think you did?”

  She looked around, disoriented. Where was she? It wasn’t the Rose Legacy. But she had only disconnected thoughts. She touched her shoulder and recalled him pulling the joint into place. She recalled him wrapping her in the jacket, but she didn’t recall … or did she? A flash of them tied together, of her arm around his neck as he climbed … A sense of his arms lifting and carrying her. She flushed with the realization.

  “I guess you’re determined I haul you no matter what.”

  That was unfair and she bristled. “I did not ask your help.”

  He laughed, actually laughed. “No, Miss DiGratia, you just set in to bargain. ‘How much to haul this?’ ” he mimicked. “And waved your arm imperiously as though I were …” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’d say we’re even now. A square deal.” He pointed a finger at her face. “I put your wagon over, but I’ve pulled you out. Good enough?”

  What was he going on about? Either he had hit his head or she had. “You make no sense.” She stepped to pass him but caught her boot in her torn skirt and stumbled. He caught her fall, but it jarred her shoulder, and she cried out, gripping the joint.

  “Hold on. Let me get you untangled.” He stooped and freed the skirt from her boot toe, then held her elbow as she straightened. “Besides your shoulder, are you injured?”

  She shook her head. She hurt all over—every muscle stiff and sore, bruises and scrapes, her head throbbing again now that she stood. But she wouldn’t say so. It was enough to be out of the shaft and alive.

  He eyed her doubtfully a moment, then nodded. “Good. Stay put.” He turned and walked out of the mine.

  A moment later she heard him hoot. She hurried painfully to the opening and saw him standing under the spring gushing from the rock. The icy water rushed over him, slicking his hair to the back of his neck and muscular shoulders, which he had bared by tossing the shirt onto the pants and boots he had also removed. He stood in nothing but his long johns under the spring, and Carina realized she was staring.

  She had never looked on a man while he washed, and she shouldn’t look now. But Quillan Shepard was beautiful. His form, his strength, the way the muscles and sinews moved … She turned away, staring into the dimness of the tunnel until her heartbeat returned to normal and she heard him huffing through pursed lips as he pulled on his clothes.

  “Cold. That’s cold.”

  She stepped back out while he squeezed his hair, then shook it back over his shoulders, an unruly mane, tamed now by the water that dripped from its edges.

  “Ready?”

  She eyed him dubiously. “For what?”

  He motioned to Jock grazing nearby. “To ride down.”

  She touched her own matted hair. “If you would wait, I might do the same.” She motioned toward the spring.

  “It’s cold. Bone-chilling cold.”

  Bene. She would not ride in her grubby state with him clean. She held her head straight and walked toward the spring. At its edge, she took off her jacket and paused until he made a show of turning away. Then she bent her head into the rushing water and felt her bones chill.

  Quillan watched her sidelong. He couldn’t help it. Her hair came loose from the braid and shimmered like a crow’s wing in the sunlight as she worked her fingers through it, then turned her face to the spring, fending the water off with her small hands and staunch fortitude.

  She was an enigma, in some ways naive and gullible and helpless, yet determined and feisty at the same time. He’d scrapped enough with her to know she didn’t back down, yet she’d accepted his help last night with the innocence of a child. Maybe only because she was dazed. She was anything but a child now.

  When she stepped out of the spring, she gripped the injured shoulder, and he knew it was as much to cover her wet blouse as t
o give aid to the painful joint. He reached for the canvas jacket on the ground where she’d discarded it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She pulled it close, looking for all the world as though it was his fault he noticed her form.

  What did she think? He was blind? Water ran from the bulk of her hair hanging in front of one shoulder, and she tried to squeeze it one-handed. His unease became impatience. The sooner he had her on the horse the better. “Here.” With both hands he caught her hair and twisted. It was thick and springy and resisted him. Wonderful hair.

  She stood frozen as he worked the water from it, but he wasn’t sure it was the cold that did it. Well, if she was the protected daughter of some high-ranking don, she’d probably never had her hair squeezed dry by a man. For that matter, it was new to him, though he wouldn’t show it. He dropped the dark heavy mass, wishing now he hadn’t touched it.

  “Thank you.” The quaver in her voice matched the feeling in his chest.

  This was altogether precarious ground. “Don’t you mean to say grazie?”

  She frowned. “Why should I?”

  He pulled off his boot and shook the stone from it. “You were certainly going on in Italian last night.”

  She raised her chin. “And what did I say?”

  He tugged the boot back on. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe you were thankful for my efforts in not only finding but extricating you from your predicament.” He saw the fire in her eyes. She was too easy, rising to every taunt without reserve.

  “Oh sì, un gross’umo. Così importante.”

  Her defiance intrigued him, and he allowed the grin. “What did you call me?”

  “A big man. So important.” Her tone was anything but sincere. Again she tugged the jacket close. “I’m ready. You can fetch your horse.”

  Now he heated. Who did she think she was? But then he saw the drawn look of pain and exhaustion on her face. Compassion stirred, compassion she didn’t deserve and he didn’t want to feel. If he could feel sorry for her, what else might follow?

  The morning light and the icy spring had cleared the poetry from his head. But there were more corporeal instincts at work just now. And those he would not allow. She was the woman who had made more trouble for him than he’d yet seen, he was sure.

  Riding down, Carina was painfully aware of the solid chest behind her back, the arms that enclosed her while guiding the halter rein, the breath on the crown of her head. This was closer to Quillan Shepard than she had ever hoped to be. Ingrata. Was she not thankful?

  She could be lying in the dark shaft with nothing but her thoughts to make her pazza. She could be starving, dying of thirst, waiting for someone who would never come. Who would look there? Who but Quillan Shepard?

  It was a miracle of God that he found her. But why had he? What had brought him up the gulch? Was he searching for her? Why?

  “Here.” He dug into his pocket. “This is yours.”

  She stared at the crucifix he held in his palm and took it reverently. The cross she had worn and lost. It was a miracle. “Where did you …”

  “Outside the Rose Legacy. I was leaving when I saw it.”

  Oh, Signore. Her breath fled her lungs. He was leaving? The impact of his words struck her, and she shuddered. If he had come there and gone away, who would have looked again? It would have been as she imagined. She winced at the jarring of her shoulder.

  “Tuck it up here against you.” He pulled her arm across her waist. “Try not to let it swing.”

  He had noticed her pain. Did he also see the discomfort, the unease she felt with him so near? Was this shaking fear? Did she still think him a monster, the son of an animale? He hadn’t looked like one. And if he were, why had God let him find her? Why this man and not another? “How did you know where to look for me?”

  “You hardly kept your intentions secret.” His voice was gruff. “Half the town knows you ride up to Placer. And after your curiosity about Wolf, it was an easy deduction.”

  She cringed when he said it. Suddenly the whole scene of their last meeting came fresh to her mind, his angry face, his wounded tone. And she deserved it. Her guilt wrapped her like a cloak. “Then why?”

  “Mae sent me.”

  Mae. Why would she go to Quillan? Why not Mr. Beck or Joe Turner or any number of others? Carina could have faced anyone more easily than Quillan Shepard.

  He was solid against her back. “Carina, what is it with you and the Rose Legacy?”

  She felt her throat tighten at his use of her name, and she realized he had used it last night. She remembered him calling out, and hearing her name in the darkness had brought her out of her dreams. Hearing it now in the daylight, she knew something had changed between them, something she didn’t want changed. But how could it not? He had given her back her life.

  “At first I thought to hurt you, to learn something to use against you to retaliate for my wagon.”

  “The tale of Wolf worked well.” His tone cut.

  She sagged. “I didn’t know it was—”

  “Well, now you do. And most of Crystal with you. It won’t be long before connections are made.”

  She remembered the faces of the miners, some reliving the tale, most hearing it for the first time. She had made the connection for them, saying it could be no worse than William Evans’ murder. Worse or not, it was far too similar.

  What would they think? How would it hurt Quillan? Forgive me, she wanted to ask, but couldn’t. “What can I do?” It sounded self-serving and presumptuous, as though she could undo the wrong. She was learning that a deed done had consequences, no matter how much she might come to regret her action.

  He was quiet a long moment. “You can tell me what you know of Berkley Beck’s activities.”

  The answer surprised her. “His work?”

  “If that’s what you call it.”

  “I told you already. It’s land claims and disputes.”

  “Not that work.”

  She half turned in the saddle. “What do you mean?”

  His face was stern, unyielding, uncomfortably close and well proportioned. “I mean the other things he does, the forged deeds, the scams, the racket.”

  “Forged?” Could he mean …

  He smiled grimly. “That’s the irony, isn’t it?”

  He believed Mr. Beck had forged her deed? “How do you know?”

  “I don’t for sure. But I suspect, and I’m not the only one. The trouble is, he has the rough element in his pocket. Anyone who tries to speak out meets with an ‘accident.’ You don’t think Norman Crawford fell down his shaft and broke his neck by mistake, do you?”

  She shook her head. “Norman Crawford?”

  “He had a room at Mae’s. I thought you knew.”

  A quiver ran up her spine. The man who fell and broke his neck, whose bed she’d changed that day with Mae, whose bed Joe Turner now slept in …

  “He traced a forged deed back to Beck, tried to find justice through the law. When that failed, he spoke out for vigilante action against the roughs. Had to be silenced before the idea caught on.”

  She didn’t want to ask the next question but had to. “And William Evans?”

  Quillan’s arms tightened as he gripped the halter rope. “I don’t think Beck dirtied his own hands.”

  Her breath was coming in short bursts. “But you think he ordered it?” She recalled Beck’s curt words to Carruther and Carruther’s immediate response.

  “I don’t know what’s behind Evans’ death. If it was meant to send a message to others, then I’d wager long odds Beck’s involved.”

  She trembled. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He reined in and turned her to face him. “I’m hoping you’ll help me.”

  Help him? Hadn’t Berkley Beck said the same? Which of them spoke truth? Whom could she trust?

  “Unless, of course, you still think Beck’s the golden boy he pretends to be.”

  She recalled Berkley Beck’s hand coiling her hair, his dark in
nuendoes. “I’m not deceived.”

  “Then why do you stay with him?” He seemed honestly curious.

  She sighed. “I’m waiting.”

  “For what?”

  The words came with difficulty. “For Flavio.”

  Quillan slid the back of his fingers over the side of his jaw. “The one who doesn’t care?”

  She dropped her gaze, ashamed to have told so much. Why did she blurt things she didn’t admit even to herself whenever Quillan held her with his eyes? “He may still.”

  “And until then, Beck pays your keep.”

  He made it sound cheap, dishonest. “He employs me in his office.” She flushed.

  His laugh came readily. “Don’t worry. I mistook you that first time, but I’ve realized my mistake.”

  “That first …” Her sudden fury burned. “That was why you wouldn’t help? Why you sent my wagon …”

  “I sent your wagon down to clear the road. There was no other way.”

  The tears that sprang to her eyes angered her, but they seemed to soften him, the lines of his face losing their edge, the brows drawing together.

  His voice thickened. “I wish I’d come on you with an empty wagon.” He released her and started Jock again.

  She swallowed the tears. It was as close to an apology as she would get. Her shoulder throbbed, sending shards of pain through her arm and down her back. She felt drained and weary but held herself stiffly, so as not to rest against him. Even so, with the motion of the horse they brushed, a constant reminder of his presence. As though she could forget.

  He cleared his throat. “About Berkley Beck, will you keep your eyes open?”

  “I’ve seen nothing that—” Jock stumbled and she slipped to the side.

  Quillan caught her, his arm tight around her waist, and firmly reseated her. “You best sit tight to me over this rough ground. It’s a little late for appearances.”