The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  The doctor and the young doc together had helped him up the hill to Mae’s, and he’d sat there through the rest of the night and most of the day, alone with D.C. and unmindful of all around him. No pain, not even when he’d blown off his leg, compared to what he suffered now. He’d felt so secure in his faith. But now …”Lord, don’t take my boy. Don’t …” He dropped his face to his hands and wept.

  Sam’s brown mottled head was on Cain’s boot, his eyes large and sorrowful. Sensing Cain’s distress, the dog whined softly. But D.C. lay still, no sign of life in his battered body but a faint pulse and breath too slight to notice. The gash on his head was stitched closed, but the swelling behind it was the demon, though it hardly showed. Under the skull, the doctor’d said.

  Cain grasped D.C.’s hand as though he could hold him there as he’d held him back from so much as a youngster. “Don’t you leave me, boy. You hear? Don’t you leave me.” And he cried again, frustrated, frightened, and far too angry.

  Who did this to my son? Who put his life on the scale? I’ll kill them! Then he realized what he’d thought. Oh, God … I’m a weak and wretched man. But my boy … he could be something wonderful if you’d just give him the chance. Just give him the chance.

  TWENTY-SIX

  What strange quirk of fate, to be saved from disgrace by a savage.

  —Rose

  CARINA HURRIED TO Mae’s rooms, but upon hearing voices, she paused. Dr. Felden stood at the door with a grim countenance. What was he doing there? Was Mae ill? Carina thought of her labored breath, her easy fatigue. Had her heart …? She rushed forward, but it wasn’t Mae in the bed. It was D.C.

  “What is it? What’s wrong with him?” She stared at the boy who thought his dreams had come true. The boy who had twice already suffered at the hands of the roughs.

  “He was attacked. Robbed and beaten, hit with something hard and sharp, but blunt enough to cause a contusion to the brain. I fear the swelling is internal, beneath the skull.”

  Mae stood in the corner shaking her head. Cain sat crumpled at the bedside, looking almost as bad as D.C. except that he looked totally miserable, while D.C. looked dead already, pale and discolored. He was a victim of last night’s violence, violence Mr. Beck had used to scare the merchants into paying. And she had collected the payments.

  Cain looked up, turning slowly, his pale eyes meeting hers, his hand clasping his son’s. “Can you help him?” His voice was a ghost, but she saw in his plea the same hope she’d seen in the infirmary, men thinking she could do something she could not. What did she know? But suddenly a thought came to her of a case her papa and Vittorio, her brother, had discussed. Not the same perhaps, but similar. If the swelling was beneath the skull …

  Her voice came weakly, unsure. “There was one man Papa treated with a swelling on the brain. A hole was drilled through the skull and a shunt inserted to drain the fluid.” She saw the doctor’s avid attention and spread her hands. “To take the pressure off the brain.”

  “Did the man live?” It was Cain who spoke, his voice impressing on her his need.

  “He lived, yes, and recovered. Vittorio said he would drill the heads of all the numskulls and make them right as he had this man.” She looked at Dr. Felden. “He meant it as a joke.”

  The doctor stroked his chin, his brows drawn together in thought. “It could work. Seems barbaric, but if the pressure were relieved gently, gradually … How does one do it, though?”

  Looking at D.C., Carina shuddered. Had she just spoken his death sentence? Or was it his only chance? Life was fragile. Papa learned too often just how fragile. But the times he beat death, the times he won … Per piacere, Signore … There she was again, asking and begging like a child, waiting for Him to do what she wanted. Yet she was unable and unwilling to do what He required.

  She went out of Mae’s rooms and started for the stairs. But a knock sounded on the front door. Who would knock? Didn’t people know it was open? Carina changed course for the door and opened it to find Èmie. She felt a sudden, irrational anger toward her friend. “What is it?” If Èmie told her one more time something bad was going to happen, she would scream.

  “I thought you’d like to take the air with me. It’s such a lovely evening.” Èmie’s face was eager.

  Take the air? Promenade like two winsome girls without a care in the world? Did Èmie have any idea? Carina looked at Èmie’s long, plain face and wanted to cry. Instead, she snatched a shawl from Mae’s hook and went out.

  What she wanted was the peaceful quiet of the mine. She rarely noticed Crystal’s din anymore. It was a constant barrage that no longer drew her attention except at times like this when she longed for the mountain’s silence. Why had Èmie come? Had she any idea what Carina had suffered for her sake? Sacrificed for her friend’s safety?

  Would Mr. Beck truly harm Èmie? Would he stoop so low as to endanger a woman? How could she believe otherwise if he ordered the murder of William Evans? She thought of Quillan’s suspicions that other accidental deaths were also ordered by Berkley Beck. If only Quillan would come back….

  “What is it, Carina? What’s troubling you?”

  Carina startled. Had her distress been obvious? “Does everything you feel always show to all the world?” Quillan again, his words filling her thoughts, unsettling her mind.

  “Carina?” Èmie stopped walking.

  Carina waved a hand. “It’s been a difficult day.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you’d rather be alone.”

  As you are all the time? Carina thought, looking at her friend who had so little pleasure. She hooked an arm through Èmie’s. Whatever it took to keep Èmie safe, she would do it. “Shall we parade Central and show the young men what they’re missing?”

  Èmie laughed. “I’d rather walk the creek.”

  “The creek it is. The men can eat their hearts out.”

  Èmie pulled the braid over one shoulder. “I doubt anyone’s losing rest over me.”

  “Do you? Well, you’re wrong. You just haven’t given them the chance.”

  “I have Uncle Henri to think of.”

  Carina snorted. “Uncle Henri can think of himself. You have your own life.”

  “I owe him so much.”

  Carina didn’t argue. Èmie’s face had that beatific peace she’d seen the day Èmie told her she belonged to God. Bene. Let her belong to her uncle as well. “Do you ever complain? Ever want to … throw something or kick someone?”

  Èmie laughed. “I see it was a very difficult day. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Carina pressed her hands to her face. Tell Èmie? Let her know she had lost her reputation and self-respect because Berkley Beck would order Uncle Henri … The thought was too horrifying with Èmie beside her. And it would crush her friend to know. “I just wish … I wish I’d never come.”

  Èmie sagged. “It must be hard to leave all those you love behind. But, Carina, why did you come?”

  Carina stopped walking and dropped her hands to her sides. She sighed, then looked into Èmie’s sympathetic face. How could she give her anything but the truth? “I was hurt. By someone I trusted.” And loved, and believed in. Someone in whom I’d put my faith … and who proved faithless.

  Carina spread her hands. “I prayed, ‘Lord, what do I do?’ And then I saw the advertisement for a house in Crystal, Colorado, the diamond of the Rockies. Oh, I thought, that will show him! First he will beg me to stay, saying how sorry he was, can I ever forgive? But he didn’t.”

  Shaking her head, she continued. “He got angry. Called me a foolish girl for making so much of it. Told me I knew nothing of life. That I was innocente. It was true.” She kicked a stone and walked swiftly toward the water sparkling in the streambed, the same water that had almost cost her her life.

  “I thought God had sent me here. Now …” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “God works in mysterious ways.” Èmie joined her at the edge of the creek. Her voice was soft. “Before you came, eve
ry day was the same. Sometimes I thought I would die of the boredom. Then I felt so ungrateful.

  I had a home. I was needed, even loved by my uncles.”

  She glanced over. “But when I saw you that day in the bath, you were like some wonderful bird from a land far away. I felt a longing to know you, to have … a friend.”

  Tears stung Carina’s eyes.

  Èmie smiled impishly. “Perhaps it’s for my sake you’ve come. Should I apologize for wanting it? God knows my desires.”

  Swiping a tear, Carina laughed. “And so He whisked me out of California and carried me here?”

  Èmie shrugged. “I’d believe anything of my God.”

  My God. Carina felt a pang, a hunger inside. Èmie believed what she said. Could she know God so well? Trust Him so fully? Love Him so intimately? It was in her voice as though God were her dearest friend.

  Oh, Signore … But no. What if He proved as faithless as Flavio? Besides, Èmie was good enough for God to love that way. “You must be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb.” She looked at the creek water mumbling over the rocks in the fading light. Forgive, it seemed to say, forgive.

  Father Antoine Charboneau laid a hand on Alan Tavish’s head and pronounced the blessing. The confessions of such a one always humbled the priest and left him feeling wanting in his own walk. He with his robust vigor and hardly a sick day in his life—what could he say to one who spent every hour in pain, then asked God’s forgiveness for ingratitude and discontent?

  He was only God’s ear, Antoine reminded himself, and the compassion he felt for the ostler’s suffering must dimly mirror the Lord’s own. “Go in peace, my friend. Kneeling this long is penance enough.”

  “Aye.” Alan’s breath came thickly as he stood. “Thank you, Father.”

  “God bless you.” Father Antoine walked Alan to the door of the cabin, noting the stoop of the shoulders, the disfigured knuckles and wrists. Forgive me, Lord, for ever grudging a single ache or weary muscle.

  “Father …” Alan stopped at the door and turned. One sandy gray eyebrow bristled up like a comb above the rheumy green eye. “There’s one more thing. I’m worried about my friend.”

  “Your friend?”

  “Quillan.”

  Antoine’s own concern flickered. “Why?”

  “The talk, Father. ’Tis growing ugly.”

  Antoine looked out into the street. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “I know ye’ve done what ye can to stem it, but each day that passes without findin’ Will’s killer …”

  “I know, Alan.” Antoine tugged at his long black cassock, which he wore to hear confessions. “Is he in town? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

  “He’s buyin’ supplies.”

  “Maybe he’ll stay away.”

  Alan shook his head. “He knows he’s needed.”

  Antoine nodded once. From what he’d heard, Quillan Shepard was serving those hardest hit by the flood. Yet still the rumors persisted. He frowned. What more could be done? He patted Alan’s shoulder. “What does it avail us to worry? The Lord knows our needs.”

  Alan looked unconvinced. “Maybe that’s so. But there’s a devil among us.”

  Again Antoine felt the chill, the personal responsibility he’d felt over William Evans’ death. “I’ll see what I can do with your prayers behind me.”

  “Aye, Father.” Alan tugged the flat, nearly brimless hat onto his head and started for the street.

  Antoine watched him go, then followed reluctantly. It wouldn’t hurt to try once more with Donald McCollough. The marshal was not in his office, but Antoine found him with two of his constables in the Boise Billiard Hall.

  McCollough raised his glass in toast. “Come to join us, Father? A glass for the priest.”

  Antoine waved Bennet Danes away. He was not averse to a French Chardonnay, especially the fine vintage they’d produced at the monastery. But he wouldn’t poison himself with the shoe polish that passed for whiskey in Crystal’s bars. “No, thank you. I came for a word with you.”

  McCollough’s face darkened. He was already into his cups and took affront at Antoine’s refusal. He probably also guessed what word Antoine meant to have. “If it’s concernin’ me work, I’m off duty.” He downed his shot and called for ale. “Not that I’ll find a decent drop. Oh, for a mug of black ale—”

  “Donald.” Antoine spoke sternly. “I want to know what you’ve learned concerning William Evans.”

  “Do ye now?” McCollough lurched forward, and the wave of his breath caught Antoine full in the face. “And maybe ye’d not be so eager if ye did know, eh, boys?”

  The others with him shared an awkward glance. What did McCollough know? Suddenly Antoine felt the chill deep in his entrails. It turned to anger. “Where is your pride, man? Do your job. If you know—” The blast of sour breath that flew on the laughter made him step back.

  “Do me job, is it?” McCollough held up his plaster casted arm. “Do me job? Me job is to look t’other way. And ye might be thankin’ me for it.”

  The man beside McCollough dropped his gaze and flushed.

  Antoine pinned him with a glare. “Out with it, Kelly. What is it you know?”

  “Nothing, Father. It was some devil off the mountain that killed William Evans.” The man’s eyes never once met Antoine’s.

  “Is that what you’ve been told to say? By whom?”

  Kelly squirmed. “No one, Father. I swear it.”

  “You’ll burn in hell for lying, Gerald Kelly.” Antoine rarely used such words, certainly not with such anger as compelled him now.

  The man paled and wet his lips, but he didn’t reply. Antoine turned back to McCollough. “Because you delay, an innocent man is being maligned. If it turns violent, his blood will be on your hands for eternity.”

  McCollough’s jaw grew rigid. “Look to yer own hands, Father. And leave mine in peace.”

  There was a meaning behind his words, but Antoine couldn’t catch it. He turned with a frown and left them to their drink. He’d done what he could for Quillan. So why was his spirit dark with fear?

  Quillan woke with a jolt, soaked with sweat and chest heaving. He held himself up on his elbows and willed his breath to slow. It had been many years since that dream had tormented his sleep. But it was as fresh and virulent now as ever before. He could almost smell the smoke and feel the scorching flames.

  He rubbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and settled back to stare at the underside of his wagon. If he closed his eyes he’d feel their arms around him, the arms of his parents holding him between them as the cabin burned down upon them. He’d see their blistering flesh peeling off the bones, and the bones turning to black and charred skeletons.

  At least he hadn’t wet himself. The first time the dream had come he awoke soaked in his own urine. He’d continued wetting for three years, even on the nights he didn’t dream of the fire. It was a deep humiliation. Lying there, waiting for the shaking to stop, he supposed it was natural the dream should return. He’d thought so much of Wolf these last days.

  He hooked his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and drew a long breath to compose himself. Then he once again studied the undergirding of his wagon. He’d be in Crystal soon. Why? Why go back to the rumors, the hushed suppositions? People knew him now. He couldn’t hide who he was.

  But there were Cain and D.C. and Alan, and all the others in a bind since the flood. And he’d had a stroke of luck this trip. He’d met a mule train on the road and relieved them for a fair price of all edibles save their own. They’d also been hauling a supply of steels and sledges that he took as well. That saved him driving all the way to Colorado Springs, the prospect of which had grown heavier and heavier with each mile.

  He couldn’t focus, couldn’t put his mind to it. He was worried about his friends. Crystal was a powder keg ready to blow. And there was Carina. He shook his head, not wanting to ponder that again. Carina Maria DiGratia. Prima donna. Yet
at times so achingly real.

  The dreams she’d invaded were hardly less disturbing than the one he tried now to forget. And even his waking hours weren’t free of her. What was his obligation? Had he endangered her by telling what he suspected, by asking her to help him? The thought left him more agitated than before.

  He sat up and hit his head. “Ow!” He rubbed the spot, gritting his teeth, then threw himself down on his side. Even if he didn’t sleep, the horses needed to rest. He reached into his pack for matches, lit the lantern he’d hung from the rear axle near his head, and pulled out the poetry anthology he’d purchased.

  He let it fall open and stared, surprised and a little annoyed, at Thomas Campion’s “There Is a Garden in Her Face.” Why should it open there, on the very poem that brought Carina DiGratia’s visage to his eyes as she’d been that night in the moonlight in his arms? He could hardly think of that poem, of which he had every word in his head, without seeing her.

  He flipped the page, then flipped it back. There is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow; A heav’nly paradise is that place wherein all pleasant fruits do flow …

  Well, she wasn’t all pleasant fruits. There was certainly a persimmon or two. Even a prickly pear. Cherry ripe her lips might cry, but were they chokecherries? He closed the book and took out The Prisoner of Chillon instead. That was more like it. Quillan settled onto his back, holding the book above his face. No more love poems or he’d have no chance of sleep at all tonight.

  The next day, Mr. Beck added the houses on Hall Street to Carina’s collection list. She stood before him, stone-faced. “You can’t mean it.”

  “Of course I mean it.” His tone was clear. It was punishment, she knew, for refusing him. He was breaking her, making her pay for his humiliation with her own.

  With the blood of sheer incredulity rushing to her face, Carina gripped her hands together at her chest. “I will not go into a house of that nature.” She stood obstinate, but he was equally unmoved.