The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Carina pressed her forehead to the glass, eyes closed. They were on the roof to see the baby birds. And she had fallen. Was it Divina’s fault, as she had told herself all these years? Except for the falling, the memory was too vague. She couldn’t make it out, yet she had believed Divina caused the fear of heights that she never had until that day.

  Carina shivered. The window glass was cold against her skin, no remnant of the day’s heat present in the thin night air. It was cold, and she shivered again, her gown too thin for the mountain nights. She should climb back into the blankets, warm beside Èmie.

  But she looked out to the street instead. The shadow men were still there, and now she realized they were real. One sprang upon another, cutting him down with blows. Farther down, yet still in her view, two more attacked a second man. It was happening! There before her!

  Pressing her palms to the glass, she felt helpless, watching, unable to change what played out before her eyes. From somewhere in the night a howl came, long and lonely and savage. She shuddered, staggered back from the window as though the wolf might see her there and bound through to catch her throat with its teeth.

  She backed into something warm and shrieked, then Èmie’s hands were on hers and they pulled each other close, an embrace of fear and helplessness. Then Carina pushed away. “We must do something!”

  Èmie clung to her. “We can’t.”

  “You know we must.”

  “They’ll kill us. Uncle Henri and all the others working for—” Her eyes widened and she turned away, her breath ragged.

  “For whom? For whom does he do his wickedness?”

  Èmie shook her head.

  Carina grabbed her shoulders, though Èmie stood a full head taller. “Tell me!”

  “I can’t. God forgive me.” Èmie dropped to her knees.

  Carina stood over her, hands resting on Èmie’s shoulders. She willed her friend to listen. “Tell me, Èmie.”

  The answer was scarcely more than a whisper. “Berkley Beck.”

  So Quillan was right. Carina was amazed by the cold stillness that stole over her. Berkley Beck was the monster. Berkley Beck, whom she had trusted, even touted to Mae and others. Did anyone know? Did Mae, who thought him conceited but harmless? Did Alan Tavish? Cain Bradley? Father Charboneau?

  Quillan knew. But he needed proof. What proof could there be for this? She stared out into the night. Surely Mr. Beck would not keep a record of such acts. Yet what did the ledger under the floor contain?

  The very thought made her quail. She was not foolish nor brave enough—it was out of the question. She crossed herself. No, Signore, I cannot. And she absolved herself with Quillan’s words, “Then I won’t ask you to.” He was not asking.

  She turned to Èmie. “You must tell Father Antoine what you know.”

  Èmie’s eyes widened, and she slowly shook her head. “I can’t, Carina.”

  “Who else can stop your uncle?”

  Èmie pulled herself up and stood stiffly. “He can’t stop Uncle Henri. Not after what’s been done.”

  Carina looked past her to the window. Was Henri out there wielding a club? A knife? Slicing men’s throats? “You don’t know he did murder.”

  “I know it.”

  Carina threw out her hands. “You didn’t see him do it!” Èmie’s face went still as marble. “I saw the knife.”

  Carina’s breath stilled, and the chill spread through her. “You must tell the priest.”

  “I won’t.”

  Carina waved her arms in sudden frustration. “Why are you protecting him after what he’s done?”

  Èmie’s reserve broke. “It’s not Uncle Henri I protect. It’s Uncle Antoine, Father Antoine. It would kill him.”

  Carina pictured the vigorous priest and doubted that.

  “Every day he blames himself for not reaching Henri. If he knew … Swear you won’t tell him, Carina.”

  Carina paced across the rectangle of moonlight on the floor back to the window. She could see bodies lying unconscious, but the shadow men had passed from her view. “Something has to be done.”

  “There’s nothing we can do. He’s too powerful.”

  Carina knew Èmie didn’t mean her uncle. She was suddenly aware of evil, palpable and present. The evil Mr. Beck wielded. At his command men robbed and plundered, maimed and killed. Because of him, men huddled in their tents, afraid to set foot outside after dark. He was a bully of the worst sort. And he had cheated her.

  She straightened and turned. “He must be stopped.”

  Èmie spread her hands, pleading. “He’s the devil.”

  The words should have terrified her. But Carina’s breath came evenly now, slow and steady, as though all the fear and horror had been drained from her. She knew what she must do. She didn’t have the courage, but somehow she must find it. She had told Quillan she wasn’t going back and had intended to tell Berkley Beck the same. But she had to. At least once.

  Lying awake in the moonlit tent, Cain waited for D.C. to come home, staring at the canvas walls dim in the moonlight. More than ever he felt his age. His arm was healing badly, the muscles growing weak and pulling away from the scar that caved into his flesh. He felt phantom pains from a shin and ankle and foot that were no longer there, and he was unable to get to the privy groping for crutches that pressed into the ragged skin of his sides.

  He sighed. Sometimes living was hard. He rolled over on the bedding. D.C. had been all for building a fine house right beside the mine, but Quillan had said wait. Wait until the first assay confirmed the expectations, wait until the extent of the ore was ascertained, wait and see.

  And it was sound advice. For once the boy had listened. But he didn’t listen tonight. With everything coming out just as he’d hoped, the money weighting his pocket from the early ore shipments, and Quillan not there to gainsay him, D.C. had left his daddy in the tent and gone to town.

  And now Cain waited. The moon waned and still he waited. In the waiting, he realized how little the silver meant to him. The fever that had burned in him for two decades had burned itself out. For the first time, he had prospects worth tens, hundreds of thousands, maybe more. And it didn’t matter. He just wanted his boy to come home.

  The morning sun fought for its piece of sky through the clouds crowding in from the north, carried on the wind. With her mind set, though bleary from lack of sleep, Carina made her way toward the office. Knots of men clustered on the walks and streets in angry discussion while the mule teams and ore wagons, the calls of the hawkers and tinny pianos, all seemed a part of a discordant opera with no libretto.

  There were no bodies in the street. No murdered men with crowds gathered around. She almost believed she had dreamed what she saw the night before. Then her skirt swished over blood-spattered dirt, and the reality of the night’s events returned. Now she heard the conversations, the fear in the men’s voices, the anger.

  “By gum, we won’t stand for it. We’ve got to put an end to it.”

  “And end with our throats cut like Evans?”

  “Or just wait till it happens anyway?”

  “I say lynch them all.”

  “And you’ll be the next with a slit throat.”

  She crossed herself and walked by, wishing her feet might travel on for miles, rather than stop where they did. Per piacere, Signore, one minute only, a quick look, nothing more … Carina touched the office door, gripped the knob and turned, then went inside. Her heart sank at the sight of Mr. Beck, sitting at the desk with his feet on the board. So it would not be easy. She shot her silent disgruntlement to heaven.

  She wanted only one chance to give Quillan what he asked for. But God would not make it easy. Bene. She walked in, trying not to tremble, knowing what she knew. Did the knowing show in her face?

  Berkley Beck stood but did not extend his usual greeting, nor did he smile. She had hoped to be in and out while he lingered over coffee and his newspaper. Why this morning must he be prompt?

  “Good
morning.” Her voice sounded small.

  Still he didn’t speak. His eyes were cold blue ice.

  As he made no effort at cordiality, she chose to be direct. “I would like my grandmother’s silver.”

  He quirked an eyebrow but didn’t reply. Did he think to intimidate her with his silence?

  “My silver, Mr. Beck.”

  “I heard you the first time. Unfortunately …” He stood and walked around the desk. “Since you made clear yesterday that you refuse my offer, I must hold the silver as collateral against your debts.”

  “My debts?” Carina glanced at the floor where both her silver and the ledger lay. So close.

  “Your keep has come dear.”

  Her mouth fell open, her poise deserting her. Blood rushed to her face. “I demand my silver.”

  He half smiled. “You’re hardly in a position to be making demands.”

  He was right. She could not browbeat him. She forced a reasonable tone. “How much is my debt?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “Two hundred! For room and board at Mae’s? You’re pazzo.”

  “Room and board was trivial. Your protection was not.”

  “My protection … from what?” She spread her hands.

  “Surely you don’t think you roamed these streets unscathed because of some universal chivalry, do you?”

  She stared. That was exactly what she thought. She didn’t fear the men of Crystal, the miners, the simple men who had welcomed her to their hearts. But she did fear Berkley Beck and those he controlled. If she was safe it was because he had not ordered it otherwise.

  He picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “No, Carina, it was my goodwill that safeguarded you. And after last night, others will put their trust in me.”

  “Trust?” She spit the word.

  “Yes, Carina, trust. And they’ll pay to be protected as you have been.”

  “They will pay to be cheated, swindled—”

  “Temper, my dear. In what way have I cheated you?”

  She almost blurted what she knew. But then he would guess she’d found the deeds, the ledger. “You … you never said I must pay for protection.”

  He dropped his gaze. “I never thought it would come to that. As it is, you asked for my aid and you’ve received it.” He raised his head. “And you’ll continue in my service until the debt is paid. Unless, of course, you reconsider your refusal?”

  She clamped her mouth shut. What she wanted to say would be dangerous.

  “I thought not. In that case I have a task for you. Some collections to be made.”

  He held out a large leather pack. It had a shoulder strap and a hand grip, two buckle closings, and a keyhole. In his other hand he proffered the key. “You may use this purse to carry them.”

  Trembling with fury, she took the bag, then secreted the key in her pocket. As she did, she felt the Sharps Pepperbox Quillan had procured for her. “What you won’t know until it comes to it is if you can point at a man and pull the trigger.” Quillan’s words stung her. Had he guessed she might have to find out?

  She drew her fingers away from the metal. She hadn’t used it since he had showed her how. Except for the one time Quillan had grabbed her in the night, she’d had no thought to use the gun in her defense. Now it seemed Berkley Beck must guess its presence. Could she point at him and shoot?

  He held out a list. “These are the addresses you’ll visit. The owners are expecting you.” His arrogance was appalling.

  A surge of anger filled her. “No.” She thrust the bag at him. Let him withdraw his protection.

  His eyes pierced her suddenly, terrifyingly real. “You’ll make the collections and bring them here. Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for Èmie’s safety. Henri Charboneau is … unbalanced.”

  Carina’s spine went cold. He would threaten Èmie? Sì. It was in his face. She felt the gun against her thigh through the skirts. “Try it from your pocket. Don’t take time to close your eye. Just point and shoot.” The thought horrified her. To send a bullet into Berkley Beck. Oh, Dio. She couldn’t do it.

  Then he softened, nearly becoming the man she had first seen, first implored to help her. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I had other plans for you, for us….”

  Oh yes, Mr. Beck. You had plans. But I have plans, too. She raised her chin. With her blood running high, she gripped the bag and stalked toward the door. For now she must do as he said, but at the first opportunity she would get the ledger and give it to Quillan. As soon as he returned. She sent up a silent prayer that it would be soon.

  She started down the street, glancing up at the rumbling thunder from the dark mass of clouds rolling in, battling the sun for the sky. The wind buffeted her. There was no rain yet, but it would come. Maybe this time it would wash away the rest of Crystal, Berkley Beck included!

  She turned into the Emporium, walked straight through the nearly empty room to the counter and stopped. What would she say? How did one speak for Berkley Beck? But she didn’t need to.

  The man behind the bar eyed her sourly. “It’s you he’s sent, eh?” He muttered an oath under his breath. “ … pay his doxy …”

  The blood rushed to her face at the insult, but what could she say? Would he believe she was as constrained as he?

  The man shoved a stack of bills at her. “There. Now get out.”

  Furious and humiliated, she snatched the money and shoved it into the bag. Porca miserio. She reached the street, shaking, then moved on to the next. Her welcome was no better at the Boise Billiard Hall, though Bennet Danes didn’t insult her to her face. He waited until she turned her back, then let loose a string of names that made her shake with rage.

  She cringed when the owner of the Gilded Slipper glared her way, then snarled, “You’d earn it more honestly working for me.”

  His words hurt the worst yet. A saloon girl more honest than she? If they were so eager to trust Mr. Beck, so thankful for his protection, why did they treat her like the plague? Because they didn’t trust or respect him. And in their eyes, she and Berkley Beck were one. With this task, he had destroyed her name, her reputation. It didn’t matter that none of the things they said were true, only that they believed it.

  And suddenly she thought of Quillan and the things being said about him, about Wolf and about Rose. Had Rose been maligned this way? Surely she was ruined. Why else flee to Placerville as … as the sort of woman the merchants now thought Carina? How long before everyone said such things of her? Holding herself defiantly, she started down the walk.

  “Miss DiGratia.” Joe Turner doffed his hat before her. “I’m boring a new shaft, and I wondered, would you be so kind as to take a look before we dig?” His face was humbly earnest.

  The knot in her stomach eased. His faith in her, no matter how silly, returned to her a measure of decency. She smiled. “Where is it?”

  “Just a little way. I brought my carryall.” He motioned to the small carriage pulled by a single gray.

  She had five more places from which to collect, and Mr. Beck would be angry at the delay. Well, let him be. She would show him he couldn’t bully her. Joe Turner helped her into the off side, then climbed in himself and drove her to his mine. The works were substantial already, with many men laboring. They all doffed their hats when she climbed down, and her heart sang over the noise of steel on steel and blasting powder.

  Here were the men who believed in her, the men she trusted. To them she was still Lady Luck. Grazie, Signore, for these people. Mr. Turner walked her through the shaft house and out again, skirting the tailings. “Here it is, the spot I’ve chosen for the new shaft. And I’d like to name it after you.”

  Carina looked up, amazed.

  “The Carina DiGratia. I know it’ll bring me luck … again.”

  Luck? Her throat tightened. The Rose Legacy had been named for Rose. Had it brought Wolf luck? Or Rose? Why did thoughts of Quillan’s mother keep intruding? Because Rose, too, had been shunned. All the buoyan
cy left her. “Mr. Turner, you’ve brought your own luck.”

  He shook his head. “No. I intended to dig the next hill over, only I couldn’t find it in the dark. You’re my luck, Miss DiGratia. Please say I may.”

  The money bag was heavy on her shoulder, as she hadn’t dared leave it in the wagon. What if Joe Turner learned of it? What if they all learned? She sighed. “You may name it anything you like.” But my luck may have run out. It certainly felt that way.

  He whooped and tossed up his hat. “The Carina DiGratia it is!”

  Carina forced a smile, though her heart grew heavy inside her. Why, Signore? Why do you strike me? What have I done? But she knew the answer, and it weighed on her mind as heavily as her heart. Forgive and be forgiven.

  As Joe drove her back, she sat silently, perilously close to tears. When he left her she felt bereaved, standing alone in the crowd on the walk. The next two stops were as bad as the first ones; the last three were less painful. By that time she was numb. As she carried the bag back to Berkley Beck, she thought again of the gun in her skirt pocket.

  What if she shot him? Would they hang her? The owners of the saloons knew what he was doing, but would they speak for her? She pressed her eyes closed, hearing the names they called her, the innuendoes. No. They would not defend her. She was now as guilty as he.

  Drawing a long, bitter breath she went into the office and dropped the bag at Mr. Beck’s feet. Without a word, she turned and walked out. She had never felt so low, so wretched. Even Flavio’s betrayal had not taken away her self-respect. She was aware in a way she’d never been before of what flimsy fabric reputation was made. Born into respectability, one’s virtue was assumed until such slight breeze should snatch it away.

  How would she hold up her head? How would she look people in the eye? She lifted her skirts and ran to Mae’s. Surely Mae wouldn’t judge her.

  Cain sat beside his son, every year heavy in his limbs. The premonition had kept his eyes from closing in sleep last night, and he’d been wakeful and ready when they came for him. He knew by their faces it was bad, but he hadn’t guessed how bad. God, if it’s a life you want, take mine. What good am I anyhow? An old, legless broken-down fool. He sagged, feeling the sob building in his chest.