She recognized Quillan among them and dropped her gaze before he saw her. Too many feelings were conjured when their eyes met. And she was nervous already knowing he was coming for supper. Why had she ever offered such a thing?
The priest saw Quillan also but made no greeting. Instead, he drew a long breath and released it as they passed, then turned to her. “You’ve been asking about Wolf.” The priest’s face grew stern, and she quailed inside.
“I did ask, but—”
“You’ve awakened suppositions that were better left forgotten. Especially on the heels of this week’s violence.”
She knew it was true. Even with the flood, William Evans was not far from the miners’ minds, and the tale of Wolf had become interwoven in their mutterings. She dropped her gaze.
“You’re meddling in things you don’t understand.”
Carina shook her head. “I’m not asking anymore. I don’t want to know.”
“It’s too late for that.” Taking her arm, he led her to the shade of a bench beside a partially erected building. Yesterday it hadn’t been there. Thanks to man’s industry, today its wall kept the sun from burning down on them. Father Charboneau seated her, then motioned to the bench at her side. “May I?”
“Of course.” She nodded, though she wished he would walk away and leave her.
“What you heard was not the whole story. I’m going to tell you another, and you can judge between them. Wolf’s story. He gave it to me one night on the mountain in the dark. I say gave, because it took so much for him to share it. To my knowledge he told no one but me.”
The priest’s eyes found hers a moment, held them captive, then released her. “I recall him sitting under the stars, the firelight playing on his face as he spoke of a small boy traveling with his parents and baby sister. Two other wagons were in the train, none of them experienced, but all determined to better themselves in Oregon, the great land of plenty.”
Carina pictured the two men sitting by the fire on the mountain under the night sky, Wolf with his mane of golden hair, Father Charboneau unremarkable except for his vigor.
“For a boy of five years, such a journey is a magical adventure, something new every mile. But it’s also grueling and long, especially for the women and the young. One night as they camped along the river, the baby began to cry. Perhaps it was colic, perhaps something else. She wouldn’t be soothed.”
Carina swallowed the tightness in her throat, hearing again the old prospector’s voice. “That baby started in to cry. And then Wolf, see, he started a-howlin’, the fiercest, loneliest howlin’ ever heard.”
“Wolf, though that wasn’t his name at the time, had crept some distance from the wagon to find a bush and take care of nature. But he heard his father scolding in a low, harsh voice. ‘Quiet that baby, Judith, before she brings God’s wrath upon us.’ ”
Carina shivered, though the sun was hot. Without knowing why, she dreaded the next words the priest would speak.
“Wolf never returned to the wagon. A Pawnee raiding party swooped in upon them in the darkness, and, though I won’t give you the details, which he described with agonizing recall, the deeds done that night were something no child should behold. The horror of it would turn a strong man’s mind.”
Father Charboneau groaned. “Think, Carina, what such a scene would do to the innocence of a child. As Wolf watched, his family was destroyed. Not a life was spared, not even the baby, whose cries had betrayed their position.”
Looking down, Father Charboneau raised his brows and sighed. “When a party of Sioux found Wolf two days later, he was sitting on the ground beside the burned out wagons, howling in fear and hunger. They named him Cries Like a Wolf.”
Father Charboneau stood, linked his fingers together, and hung his hands. “Wolf showed me the scars he bore for being a white slave among the people. I’ll keep the memory of them always, though I don’t doubt the scars in his mind were more brutal.”
Here the priest fixed her with his blue eyes. “But he was a gentle man, a deep and compassionate man. He wanted no part in violence, only to live in peace.” He eyed her a long moment, then spoke very low. “I don’t believe Wolf killed that miner. He was no animal. He was the most humane man I’ve ever met. It wasn’t in him to kill.”
Hearing the priest, Carina believed it. Wolf was not the monster the miner had described. He couldn’t be. Nor was he the savage Quillan thought him, or Rose would not have loved him. And somehow, Carina was certain she had. Father Charboneau stood a long moment, and Carina thought he would say more. But then he turned and walked away.
Carina closed her eyes, picturing the child Cries Like a Wolf. A child who became a man but carried in him the fear and heartbreak that howled when his own son cried. And that son was Quillan. She knew now what Mae and Father Charboneau had meant. Leave it alone.
“Carina. Thank goodness you’re well.”
Startled, she opened her eyes to Berkley Beck. She hadn’t spoken with him since before the flood. He had not come back after Mae sent him away Wednesday evening. He was too busy restoring Crystal. A man of importance and duty. And what else?
He reached a hand to her. “I looked for you at Mae’s, but she said you were helping with the injured. At the hotel they told me you’d gone out with the priest.”
Reluctantly, she took his hand and stood, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve her fingers.
He tucked them into the crook of his arm and held her to his side. “I’m thankful to find you alone at last. And I must say I’m dismayed by your injury.”
“Others are much worse.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “It was a grisly business finding the wounded and less fortunate. You can’t imagine my concern when your name was added to the list of missing.” He led her back along the creek.
From the corner of her eye, Carina saw Quillan examining the wagon. It must be his own, though the tongue was gone and the wheels demolished. The irony was not lost on her, though she took no pleasure in it. He glanced over only briefly as they passed, but Mr. Beck noticed.
“It was Quillan who found you, wasn’t it?”
Her pulse jumped at the accusation in his tone. Did Mr. Beck suspect the pact she had made with Quillan Shepard?
“Mae sent him to look.” She sounded defensive, insecure. She was not skilled in deception.
Yet he visibly relaxed. “Mae? Well, that explains it. She was concerned when I told her you rode out. I thought you must be somewhere near.” He stopped and covered the fingers he held in his arm with his other palm. “I would have dropped everything and searched for you, had I known.”
Would you? Carina met his eyes and saw through his earnest façade. If there were true concern for her, it was second to what he felt for himself. His honeyed words failed to convince.
“And if I’d known she meant to send Quillan Shepard, I would have stopped her.”
That she believed. “Then I would be in the mine shaft still.”
He looked startled by the thought. “I only meant it must have been terrifying for you to be alone … with someone capable of atrocities.”
“It was terrifying to be alone.”
“Yes, of course.” His tone chilled.
She waved her hand. “And we have no proof of atrocities.” What gave her the boldness to speak so?
Berkley Beck frowned. “No. But it’s come to my attention that William Evans was a customer in the bank Quillan Shepard robbed.”
Carina stopped short. “He robbed a bank?”
“He and a partner, Shane Dennison. I saw the warrants myself.” He paused. “I believe Evans was holding it over him.”
Blackmail. That was a motive. And the method of Evans’ death … Carina looked away. It was ridicolo. What could she believe?
“You’re tired.”
“Yes.” Let him think that.
“I’ll see you back to Mae’s.”
“Thank you.” She walked beside him in silence, reluctant to face the evening th
at would come. Was she choosing the wrong side? Was Quillan Shepard not the more likely of the two to be involved in foul play? How could she know? And why had she ever gotten involved?
Quillan watched Carina pass by with Beck. She looked especially small next to Beck’s lanky height, her arm tucked close to his side. An intimate stroll, their heads turning in conversation. He’d caught only a glimpse from her, but she didn’t look put out by Beck’s attention.
He frowned. Why should that bother him? He had more important concerns. Yet the annoyance wouldn’t pass. He rested his hands on the wagon. It had been a trying day until he’d located his freight wagon, battered to be sure, but salvageable. Better than Carina’s had been.
He frowned again. What had that to do with anything? Why did every thought have to come back to her? He’d spent a restless night under the stars in a canvas bedroll, and his dreams had wrapped around her again and again. It was time to get his head back to business.
Once he got the wagon repaired, he would hardly be able to make the trips for supplies fast enough to satisfy the demands. There would be more business than he and the others could handle, which would jack the prices. And that was good, as he had much to recover. He scowled at the muddy ground where his tent had stood.
If he could figure exactly where, he’d dig like a miner for his stash. But that was ridiculous, of course. Likely his savings were washed down the gulch and on their way to Mexico. And then he realized many others were in that same position. The ones who needed the most would have nothing to pay for it. He sighed. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He’d have to wait for profit.
He stretched his back and thanked the men who had helped haul the wagon. The afternoon sun was overly warm and he needed a drink. Rubbing a hand over his face, he made for the nearest pump and worked the lever until water gushed. He splashed his face and neck, then cupped his hands and drank.
Looking up, he saw Alan Tavish beside him. The salvage of livery parts and pieces had kept Alan and those helping him busy. Quillan had worked with a fervor to recover everything he could for Alan, and he’d help raise the walls again when the salvage was completed. A livery was necessary to his business. And Alan was a good friend.
“Aye, and it’s yer own wagon ye’ve trundled up this time.”
“A little the worse for wear.”
“But not beyond repair.”
“No.” Quillan took off his hat and shook back his hair. “Though where I’ll find a wagon tongue …”
“Find you a straight, strong pine, lad.”
Quillan laughed. “It may come to that.” He shook his head, looking over the landscape. The mud was cracked and turning to dust. Everywhere were heaps of rubble, some left by the flood, others gathered and deposited purposely.
But Crystal would survive. There was an air of determination, and men worked together today who had been at rifle point over a claim dispute before the flood. Nothing like catastrophe to draw a town together, he thought. Then Alan ruined it.
“Don’t know that ye’ve heard, but there’s ugly talk about.” Quillan turned. “What ugly talk?”
“Concernin’ yerself.”
Quillan formed his features into nonchalance. “Something I should care about?”
“Hearkenin’ can’t hurt.”
“Let’s have it, then.”
Alan rubbed his left shoulder joint. “Concernin’ the manner of Will’s death, some are drawin’ the string to that other. There’s some as think ye’ve kept overmuch to yerself.”
“So?”
“ ’Tis queer to some ye won’t drink and wench. ’Tis queerer ye don’t play the cards. But the worst of it is their knowin’ ye’re Wolf’s own son.”
Quillan frowned. “I guess it was bound to come to light.”
“There’s some sayin’ right out ye should be strung up before the madness takes ye again.”
Quillan’s throat tightened more with anger than fear. “We know which ones they are.”
“Aye.”
“What do you think?”
“T’wouldn’t hurt to bide awhile somewhere …”
“Hide, you mean?”
“Nay. But once yer wagon …”
“Once my wagon is operational, I’ll be hauling supplies badly needed. Half of Crystal is without necessities. By the way, how’s the boy?”
Alan smiled. “Springin’ back with all the grace of youth.” He was clearly relieved his stableboy had suffered no worse than bruises and a few cuts. Quillan’s warning had given him time to drop the shovel and help release the horses. Then Alan had lost him when the water hit, fearing for his recovery.
“Quillan …” Alan gripped his forearm.
Quillan laid a hand over Alan’s. “Don’t worry for me, my friend. Just keep your ears open.”
Alan’s throat worked, then he nodded. “Aye.”
“Daddy, you’re not goin’ to believe this.”
From his perch on Mae’s newly erected porch, Cain gazed up to his son. “What is it, boy? Cuz I’d believe about anything after Tuesday.”
D.C. straddled a stool across from him and shook the hair from his eyes. “Your mine—the Boundless? The tunnel’s all closed up, filled in, and covered over.” The boy sounded halfway jubilant.
“That ain’t remarkable, seein’s we just had a flood,” Cain said flippantly. “I’ll dig it out again.”
“That’s just it, Daddy. Remember I told you there’s no ore worth beans in there?”
“That’s what you say, but—”
“Listen to me, Daddy. I’m telling you, just alongside it there’s a patch of ground opened up that looks to me like silver bearing lead ore with gold leaf.” D.C. held out a chunk of black rock that brought Cain’s heart to his throat.
The old thrumming he’d felt once before just from raising a pan of nuggets from a creek spilled through him and softened his throat. “Is it on my claim?”
D.C. nodded. “It sure is.”
Cain felt the grin take over his face. Oh, Lord Jehovah, in the midst of this devastation, you have seen fit to multiply my loaves. Let it be enough to keep my boy beside me in my failing years. And Quillan, too, if it ain’t askin’ too much. “Son, you just run along and show that rock to Quillan.”
From his stump, Cain watched his son skip down the hill toward the creek. He knew well enough the look he’d seen in D.C.’s eyes. Some might call it greed. Cain called it hope.
TWENTY-THREE
My heart is a blind guide. Why did I follow?
—Rose
CARINA GLANCED UP when Èmie plopped down at the kitchen table. The look on Èmie’s face was a curious blend of desperation and boredom, but Carina didn’t ask. She had learned that Èmie was more forthcoming when she could do so in her own time.
Èmie stuck out her lower lip and blew the breath up her face to the damp hair on her forehead. “I’m worn out. Working the baths was tedious, but at least I didn’t have to talk from sunup to sundown. If I say another word I’ll scream.”
Carina measured out the flour and salt into Mae’s yellow crockery bowl. “Talk is good. Language is what separates us from the animals. My papa used to tell me so when we studied English together. He said we must communicate to rise above the dumb creatures.”
Èmie sighed. “Right now I envy the dumb creatures.”
One-handed, Carina cracked an egg into the well she’d made in the flour. “The injured men don’t know what to do with themselves. They can’t work and they can’t drink or gamble.” She waved the eggshells. “They must talk.”
Èmie looked at her sidelong. “You seem … different.”
Carina raised the bottle of olive oil. “How different?”
“I don’t know. More … accepting. I saw you this morning with the Italian women. The way you held the old grandmother whose son was lost—it just didn’t seem like you.”
Carina frowned. It hurt to hear it. Was she so trista, so wicked, a simple act of kindness was a thing to notice and remembe
r? Had she been so self-important? So wrapped up in her own woes she closed her heart to others?
That had never been her way. Always she was the one to tend the injured bird, the scraped knee of a small cousin, the wounded pride of one or another of her brothers. Papa had named her his infermiera and called for her help with his more difficult patients. She could soothe them when others failed and calm the despairing with a gentle touch, a soft word.
Yet here was Èmie holding the glass to her face. She had come to Crystal with her eyes darkened, full of her own heartache and the anger that went with it. It had shown as haughtiness and disdain.
Èmie touched her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Carina drizzled the oil into the well with the egg, a dessert spoon’s worth, only she couldn’t measure it properly with her arm in the sling. “You haven’t. You spoke the truth. In Italy the lines are drawn more sharply. My papa is a landlord, and they are peasants. Here in America, I sometimes forget things are different. We are all pilgrims.”
Èmie smiled, her teeth slightly protruding. “I like the way you talk. It’s kind of poetic.”
“I’m not poetic. Flavio told me too many times I lack the tortured spirit.”
“Flavio? Is he one of your brothers?”
Carina blanched. She did not want to discuss him with Èmie. She had already bared too much to Quillan Shepard. She waved a hand. “He is my cousin.” Distant cousin, and only love.
She thought of the photograph of him hidden away in the black satchel under the cot. The photograph and his letters, filled with true poetry and beautiful pictures drawn by him, freehand. Pictures and letters and one thing more. She closed her eyes. What if it had been washed away in the flood?
Carina reined in her thoughts. It was foolish to imagine she would need it, foolish to have brought it at all. And what were the letters and pictures but torment? She was spurned. What did she want with reminders? She poured hot water into the dough and worked it with her fingertips into a ball, then tipped it onto the floured board. How would she knead it with only one hand?
The Rose Legacy Page 29
