She looked up at Èmie. “Come. You wanted to learn. Wash your hands, and I’ll teach you to make pasta that will win the heart of any man.”
Èmie flushed, then stood and scoured her hands. Carina laughed when minutes later Èmie’s hands were thick with dough, the weariness gone from her as they chattered and worked elbow to elbow. Carina instructed as Mamma had instructed her, as Nonna had instructed Mamma and so on for generations back.
Together they made a meal fit for the king of Sardinia himself. How Papa would have praised her efforts as her brothers fought for the choicest servings. How Mamma would have swelled with pride to see her daughter performing the duties she would need as a wife. And how Flavio would have taken it for granted that she had done it for him.
Beh! She had not done it for Flavio. She and Èmie had labored to please the palate of a man to whom she owed her life. A man she scarcely knew and more than a little feared. Yet it mattered in a way it shouldn’t, and Carina’s stomach fluttered with anxiety. To cook for Quillan Shepard. Whatever had possessed her?
In the gloaming, Quillan examined the rock D.C. had brought him. He’d hauled enough ore to know it was promising, the silver rich, the gold leaf visible even without crushing. “Well, Daniel Cain, how do you feel about mining now?”
D.C. grinned. “I guess it’s not so bad.”
“Not as great as freighting, though.” Quillan patted the box of his wagon, which was now upright across two poles beside the creek.
D.C. grimaced. “Freighting’s hard on the backside.”
Quillan wrapped an arm over his shoulder. “You know, D.C., there’s no perfect world. You have to take the bad with the good. It makes you a man.” Even though there was a whole lot more bad than good.
“This …” D.C. held up the ore. “Is gonna make me a man.”
“Maybe. But remember what happened last time. There’s always someone bigger, someone tougher. Don’t rest your happiness on something you can lose.”
D.C. nodded slowly. “Like your tent and Daddy’s.”
“I wish it were only my tent.” The loss of his cache had been eating him all day. Stupid thoughts like wondering how much had been in there and trying to figure it without having ever counted. And thinking maybe he ought to dig out around the area where he thought his tent had been, just to see if maybe …
“You got your wagon back.” D.C. patted the wooden side.
Quillan smiled grimly. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Aw, you can fix it up. And we can use it to haul the ore to the smelter. We won’t have to pay freight, and that’ll be so much profit.”
Quillan yanked a splintered axle loose and laid it in the mud. “By ‘we,’ I presume you think I’ll be working the mine with you.”
“Sure. Now you see what we’ve got. You’re half owner.”
Quillan straightened. “As I told your daddy, I’m not working the mine. It’s an investment only. I’ll haul your ore, but you’ll have to hire on some men to work the mine. From the looks of it you’ll need an engineer and a manager and a crew.”
“But why won’t you—”
“Don’t you know when to let it go?”
The boy shrugged. “I just expected you’d jump in. Not a man in Crystal wouldn’t be shouting the news if he’d found ore like this lyin’ on the surface.”
“Well, I suggest you keep it to yourself, or the roughs might strip that surface for you as neatly as they stripped your daddy’s money from your pocket.”
D.C. frowned. “Aren’t you ever goin’ to let me live that down?”
“Soon as you demonstrate what you’ve learned from it.”
“Quillan?”
Quillan leaned an elbow on the wagon side.
“I’m gonna make my daddy proud.”
Quillan looked at the earnest eyes, pale as Cain’s, though lacking the old man’s wit and wisdom. Maybe the boy wasn’t hopeless after all. “You do that, D.C.”
Watching him walk away, Quillan wished it had been so easy for him. Cain’s sun rose and set on D.C. No matter how many times the kid messed up, Cain was there to shake him off. Not a bad thing, family.
He remembered Reverend Shepard showing him how to milk the cow, placing his hands on the udders, then covering them with his own and making the motion, squeeze and tug, squeeze and tug. Quillan remembered the thrill he felt when the milk squirted out, a sharp fft, ftt and the brief touch of his foster father’s palm on his head. If only it could have all been like that.
With the eye of a mother for a newborn child, Carina eyed the cannelloni Mae removed from the oven. She had not meant this project to involve Mae and Èmie, but with her arm in the sling, she could not have done it alone. Now, breathing the aroma of the cannelloni stuffed with stewed beef, which Mae had provided but Carina minced and seasoned with parmigiano cheese, egg, and nutmeg, she felt the pleasure rise up again.
Mae thumped the pan unceremoniously onto the stovetop and closed the heavy oven door. “Well, there it is, and a lot of work to be put into someone’s stomach.”
“But worth it for the pleasure it gives the mouth.” Carina smiled, feeling proud and thankful.
Mae rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand and laughed. “Can’t say I’m not eager to try it. Only I have to finish shoveling out for the men first. And now all these women and children, too. I’ll just be glad when they’re all back where they belong.” She bustled back to the dining room with a third pot of stewed beef that included carrots and potatoes this time.
Èmie had already left to prepare her uncle’s meal, and Carina stood alone in the kitchen, hoping Quillan would come soon while the pasta was hot and al dente. Then she hoped he would forget altogether. But the knock on the kitchen door dashed that hope. She felt as flustered and self-conscious as a goose. What was she doing?
She threw up her free hand as he knocked again. “Yes, I’m coming.” She pulled open the door.
Quillan stood there with a jar in one hand and the thumb of the other hooked into his suspender. He held out the jar. “It was the best I could do. Caramelized apples. Mrs. Barton’s from last season.”
He was hatless and his hair was tied back, showing the darker hair at his temples and neck. He had trimmed the length of the mustache, though it was still full. His lip had a good line, and she realized she was doing it again, staring at Quillan Shepard.
“Oh.” She reached for the jar. “They’ll do.”
The side of his mouth quirked slightly. “May I come in?”
“Sì. Yes.” She was acting a fool. “Have you washed?” What was that to ask a man?
“Yes, ma’am.” Now the rascal’s tilt was back in his smile.
“I only meant the food is hot and ready.” She motioned to the table, wishing Èmie had stayed when she begged her. But Uncle Henri must be fed.
“If you’ll sit …” Carina swept up his plate, then realized she couldn’t hold it and serve the cannelloni both. Dr. Felden had ordered her not to put any weight on the shoulder until it stopped aching.
“Why don’t I hold that while you serve?” Quillan was at her side, taking the heavy crockery plate.
Bene. She was pazza to be in this position at all. He held the plate while she scooped the steaming cannelloni al gratin. Then he took another plate from the stack, and she saw he meant for her to eat with him. She hadn’t thought to share the meal. Where was Mae?
Carina scooped a second fat cannelloni onto the plate and watched him set them on the table. Then she reached for the long loaf of crusty white bread and laid it on the cutting board with the knife. Now there was nothing else but to sit down across from him.
“Do you have any of that oil and … green stuff you put on the bread for the picnic?”
Carina had to smile. “Olive oil, salt, and basil.” She set the items one at a time on the table.
Quillan sat down and eyed his plate. “I think I could get full just smelling this.”
“Your stomach would not agree.”
“My stomach rarely has much say over what goes into my mouth.” He sliced the bread and held out a piece.
She drizzled oil over it. “Now take a pinch of basil from the jar and crush it between your fingers over the bread.”
He did as she instructed, then salted it lightly. “Miss DiGratia, I can’t say when I’ve anticipated the first bite of any meal the way I am this one.” She looked to see if he was teasing, but he had a way of masking his intentions unless he wanted them known. “Then try the cannelloni first.”
“Cannelloni?”
“The pasta. Rolled and stuffed that way, it’s cannelloni.”
Quillan cut the cannelloni with his fork, took a bite, and let it tantalize his mouth as a true Italian would. The pain in her chest as she waited showed Carina just how much his opinion mattered.
He swallowed just as Mae came in with an empty stew pot. “Well, well, Quillan. If the others knew what you were getting in here, they’d revolt. They all keep saying something smells different, then looking down at their plates with the sorriest faces you ever saw.”
Mae’s entrance had interrupted Carina’s observation of Quillan’s first impression. But he spoke with closed eyes. “If they knew what I had here, they’d forget all about gold and silver.”
Carina’s breath caught. It was a beautiful compliment, something Papa might have said. Or Flavio.
His eyes opened. “But they hadn’t the good fortune of hauling in the supplies … gratis, I might add.”
Taunting. She knew him better now. He might trim the jaunty mustache and put on a clean shirt, but he was still the man she met on the wagon road.
“Well, I may as well see what all the fuss is about.” Mae slogged a cannelloni onto her plate and sat down at the table. “Hand me a slice of that bread, will you, Quillan?”
Carina almost laughed. Mae might have been one of the men, so coarse were her manners, but Carina blessed her now for easing the situation. She tasted her own serving and found it quite satisfactory. It brought to mind the first time she’d made cannelloni, and without thinking she told them the tale.
“It was my papa’s forty-fifth birthday and I was eight. Nonna had already cooked the meat, but I diced it and crushed the bread crumbs and grated the cheese. Then I added the nutmeg. The recipe read one quarter teaspoon, but a drop of oil had marred the one and all I saw was the four. So I added four teaspoons of nutmeg.” Carina sipped her tea.
“I watched for Papa’s first taste, knowing he would praise me well. And he did, though his expression didn’t seem to match the words. My brother Tony started choking, grabbing his throat and making a big play of it. I tasted it myself, certain it would be as wonderful as it looked.”
She waved her hand. “It was not. Mama told Tony to eat it. She said it was a different recipe, a little more on the nutmeg. Lorenzo claimed he liked it better, but I saw him forcing it down with wine.”
Carina dropped her gaze to her plate. “I’m ashamed to say that when my sister, Divina, laughed, I ran from the table in tears.” She took up her fork and cut into the tender, perfectly seasoned cannelloni on her plate.
“Well, honey, this might bring tears, but not through any fault of yours.” Mae patted Carina’s slinged arm with her warm palm. “It’s the best thing I ever tasted.”
Carina smiled and glimpsed Quillan through her lashes.
His gray eyes were studiously on her as he held a bite aloft. Then he took it without speaking and continued until his plate was finished. “I don’t suppose there’s more?”
It was impossible not to feel pride as she filled his plate a second time. But after all, hospitality was a virtue, one of the highest in Mamma’s esteem. Carina told them of the wondrous foods her Mamma prepared, how she herself learned at Mamma’s hand. She spoke of the long, sweaty days in the kitchen filled with laughter and stories.
It was a woman’s world that a man penetrated at his own risk. And, laughing, she told of Mamma’s spoon smacking Papa’s knuckles when he snuck in and tried to sample the wares. None of her brothers but Tony ever followed that example, and Tony was close enough to Carina’s age that she sometimes stole him a nibble or two.
Her words brought her family so close she ached for them to walk through the door and see for themselves … see what? What would they see? What would they think of her, sitting at the board table with Mae and Quillan Shepard? They suddenly seemed far away.
When Quillan had finished his second portion, Carina cleared that plate away and served dessert. The caramelized apples and blue cheese were a stark contrast, but pleasing to the palate after the rich cannelloni. “Take only a small piece into your mouth,” she instructed Quillan when he looked dubiously at the cheese. “It’s flavor is strong.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He tasted it, moving it around between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
Carina waited.
He met her eyes. “It’s different than any cheese I’ve had before, but … I like it.”
“Now a bite of the apples, then the cheese again. All we lack is the Chianti.” Carina felt a glow she’d not felt since arriving at Crystal. It was almost like dining with family, the warm camaraderie and laughter, Quillan telling tales of his own food mishaps, Mae’s wonderful laugh filling Carina’s heart. Good food, good friends. What more could she want?
And then she caught Quillan’s eyes, saw in them the smoldering warmth, and she felt her stomach liquefy. What was this feeling inside her? Innocente! She knew the feeling, but it had no business being there.
Quillan hadn’t expected to enjoy the evening so much. He wasn’t sure what he’d anticipated, but a motherly Mae and a dazzling Carina DiGratia … He wasn’t sure what to do with that. He’d hoped to work her closer to solidifying the tentative agreement they’d made on the mountain.
He hadn’t thought to find her so real. He didn’t want to know her talents, her mistakes, her family, her laugh. He didn’t want see her as a real person. He needed her, and intrinsic in that need was risk, even danger. If he was right about Beck … But there was no “if.” He knew. And the man must be stopped.
Yet here was Carina, making him see, making him care. In the same way he’d held her on the mountain to keep her warm, safe, protected, he now discovered something inside that wanted to continue that role. Listening to her talk, to her laugh—it gave him a warmth, a depth he hadn’t tapped in years, if ever. He almost felt that he belonged.
Mae pushed up from the table. “Well, I’m not long for this night. These old bones need their sleep even if your young ones don’t.”
Carina started to rise also, but Quillan caught her hand. “Sit a moment.” He didn’t want it to end, but that wasn’t why he held her back. He would convince himself of that later, that he only needed to complete what he’d started when they rode down from the mine. It wasn’t just for himself. It was for all of Crystal. Carina included.
She sat, but she looked again as she had when he first came to the door, afraid to be alone with him. Did she think him such a scoundrel?
“Good night.” Mae sashayed to the doorway and fixed him with a look as clear as any warning. “I’m just next door.”
Did she think he’d make a play for Carina right there in her kitchen? His chest gave an unfamiliar lurch. And why not? He was alone with a beautiful, enchanting … He forced the thoughts away. He was as red-blooded as the next man, and those thoughts would only get him into trouble. Besides, Carina DiGratia was only waiting to be claimed by the one she loved before, loved still. It had been obvious when she spoke of her Flavio.
A surge of jealous anger caught him by surprise, and he felt Carina startle in his grip. His thoughts had shown and frightened her. He let go her hand, but she didn’t fly. Instead she sat looking at him with those large, expressive dark eyes. How long they sat, learning each other by sight, he didn’t know. But he realized one of them had to say something.
“Thank you for supper. If I’d known it would be so good, I’d
have come before Friday.”
“If you’d come before Friday you’d have had stewed beef.”
They laughed. It felt good and natural to laugh with her, and that surprised him. He’d imagined a number of scenarios for tonight, but none the way it had been. None half so pleasant, and none that made him feel so perilously close to her. Now it was time to return to business. Quillan pushed back his bench a little, then crossed his arms on the table. “You’re going back to work soon?”
She seemed to close in. It couldn’t be a pleasant thought, spending all those hours with Berkley Beck. But maybe it was something more; maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe she wanted no part of his plans, his plotting. Then she raised her eyes to his, and they were full of emotion, even concern. “I must warn you, he’s suspicious. Especially since you found me after the flood.”
Did he imagine the flush that came to her cheeks? She was grateful certainly, and with reason. She would have died in the shaft of the Rose Legacy. He had saved her life, and it brought a fresh rush to his system to think of it. “Does he know about the Rose Legacy?”
Carina shrugged, then winced at the pain. She held the injured joint. “Does it matter?”
“It might.”
She considered that, then shook her head. “I don’t know. He knew … that is, he told me to ask about Wolf.”
Quillan restrained the anger that memory conjured, anger at her and now fresh anger at Beck’s bidding it. “Why?”
“I told you before, he suspects you’re behind the violence in Crystal. He said a man who …”
Quillan saw the sudden caution in her eyes. “A man who what?”
Her voice came on a rush of breath. “Who robs a bank …”
He pushed back from the table, hanging his head back and studying the corner of the ceiling, tongue caught between side teeth. His anger toward Beck reached new bounds, and he fought to contain it. “Who else knows?”
The Rose Legacy Page 30
