The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “I offered you an alternative.”

  Did he truly believe he could humiliate her into marrying him? “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Crystal with or without my silver.”

  His face turned to flint. “You won’t get as far as the lake.”

  She flung a hand toward him. “Who will stop me?”

  He was silent, but his eyes held such malice, she quailed.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  His face softened. “Carina, you force my hand.”

  So he would force hers. It would only get worse. Berkley Beck would use all his power to subdue her. It infuriated her to feel so helpless against him. Everything in her wanted to fight. Her hands longed to slap, to scratch, to shake him.

  But she was a lady, constrained not only by size and strength, but also training. She could not fight him like a street urchin; she must use her brain. Berkley Beck was no fool, but neither was she, and it was time to stop behaving like one.

  Very subtly she let the fight drain from her. What if she said yes? What if she accepted his proposal of marriage? The thought sickened her, but it would buy her time and save her further degradation. Did she dare? A breach of promise would not be taken lightly.

  But then, she had already broken one—to Flavio, though for reasons of his own making. Anger flickered inside at what his betrayal had brought her to, but the pain of it was lessened somehow. If she could break off with her darling Flavio, what was it to breach a promise to Berkley Beck, who was dishonesty itself?

  She looked at him holding out the purse. Yes, she dared. She forced herself to look him in the eye. She must convince him of her sincerity, if not her desire. She let her hands drop to her sides. “You leave me no choice,

  Berkley. I accept your offer of marriage.” At least he would know she bore him no sentiment.

  His brows came up, then his smile spread broadly. “You won’t regret it, my dear. When I’ve accomplished what I intend—”

  “Please.” She raised a hand. “I know what you’re capable of.” Oh yes, I know. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” She snatched up her shawl.

  “Carina.”

  He caught her arm, and for a moment she thought he would press his advance. Inwardly she cringed, but she showed only a cool control. “Yes?”

  “We’ll have dinner tonight and discuss arrangements.”

  She nodded. There was no use protesting. For now, he had the advantage. But soon … Oh, it would be sweet … She caught herself. She was in no position to anticipate victory when she had no idea how to accomplish it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  To find beauty is to know mercy.

  —Rose

  BERKLEY BECK WORE A daisy in the lapel of his gray linen suit, and Carina was reminded of the first time Mae had sent him away. If only he’d stayed away. Now her fingers trembled with revulsion when he brought them to his lips, then tucked them into his arm and began walking. She said nothing all the way to the hotel.

  Again Mrs. Barton seated them with tight lips, and now Carina knew why. Mrs. Barton recognized Berkley Beck for what he was. Had Quillan told her? What would he think of her engagement? She shuddered. It was only a sham.

  Mr. Beck held her chair and she sat. He smiled suavely as he took his own seat. She didn’t return it but tried not to glare. Mrs. Barton returned with a pad. Berkley Beck turned his smile on her.

  “We’ll have the trout in almond butter. Make sure it’s not dry.”

  Carina’s eyebrow twitched. Who was he to speak for her? But she held her peace. Let him enjoy his victory. It would be short-lived.

  “My dear.” He reached across and clasped her hand in his. “I spoke with the judge, and he agreed to perform the ceremony next Saturday.”

  Her breath fled in a rush. “No! That’s too soon. I can’t possibly be ready so soon.”

  “What’s to be ready? We’ll honeymoon in Denver, and you can buy whatever you need there.” He leaned slightly forward. “I’m not without means.”

  Carina shook her head in disbelief. “That’s too soon.”

  “A week in Denver, or perhaps you have somewhere else in mind?”

  “You can’t expect—”

  “But I do.” Now his veneer grew thin.

  “Propriety—”

  “Propriety be hanged. This is Crystal, Carina. We make our own rules.”

  She looked down at the plate Mrs. Barton slid before her. The steamy aroma of the fish turned her stomach, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  When Mrs. Barton had gone, Berkley Beck cut into his trout and inspected its flesh. “Hmm. Not perfect, but it will do. How is yours, Carina?”

  She stared at him speechless, then slid her fingers to her throat. “I’m not feeling well.” She groped her way to her feet, and he was instantly assisting her.

  She extricated herself from his grip. “Please don’t trouble yourself. No sense missing your meal. I can see myself home.”

  He examined her a long moment. “If you’re certain …”

  “Of course. I’m a little indisposed, that’s all.” And tomorrow she would be deathly ill, and Mae would keep Berkley Beck away. Or would she, when he told of their impending marriage? Carina hurried out.

  She should tell Mae everything. But then, out on the street, she saw Quillan, returning from his trip, his wagon half full, his hair uncovered and blowing in the brisk evening breeze. It was sooner than she’d expected, but none too soon. When his eyes met hers, she felt an irrational elation.

  She didn’t have the ledger. But she would tell him what she knew, how Mr. Beck was extorting the merchants, how the latest night of violence had made them pay. He could act on that. He must. Quillan passed with a short nod, a half smile. Would he go first to his tent? Or would he make his deliveries?

  She struck across the street, fighting the evening melee. Though it was not the weekend, the city crawled with men, more and more each day with reports of Joe Turner’s success and others. Cain Bradley had hired enough men to hollow a bowl of surface ore from the hillside he claimed. Now the street teemed with them. Some tried to make a way for her, but there were many who didn’t know her, didn’t care that Joe Turner’s second glory hole was named for her.

  She thought wryly how the Carina DiGratia was rising in fame and glory while the woman he’d named it for faced possible ruin. She cut across the field, then navigated through the tent city until she stopped outside the one she needed. She knew it was his; she’d seen him emerge from it once before he’d left. Now like a shadow, she went inside.

  Quillan’s place was sparse, plain, and orderly, containing the bare essentials and nothing more. But then, whatever he had before had been lost in the flood. One thing caught her eye: a crate of books, water damaged. Had he rescued them from the flood as she’d rescued hers from the mountain?

  She lifted the top book. Tales from the Brothers Grimm. She had read those herself. She looked through the others: Moby Dick by Herman Melville, The House of the Seven Gables, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and also Hawthorne’s The Snow Image. There were several anthologies of poetry. Some of the books were ruined, yet he’d kept them as well. She smiled at that.

  His tent seemed less forbidding. She took up one book that seemed hardly dampened, the first of the Leatherstocking Tales by James Fenimore Cooper. She paged through it slowly, circling the tight space with her steps. How long before Quillan came? It could be hours. It could be dark before he found her there. She shrank inside.

  What was she doing? It was not only foolish, it was dangerous. If Berkley Beck learned of it … Suddenly the tent flap opened, and she spun. Quillan’s reaction was so swift and immediate it staggered her, the gun free from the holster and aimed for her heart. Madonna mia …

  Releasing a sharp breath, he holstered the gun and looked swiftly about. Then he stooped to enter and closed the flap behind him. The tent was not large enough for them both. His presence shrank it unbearably. She was pazza, out of her mind.

  “Well.
” He smiled. “This is a surprise.” He motioned toward the cot, the only thing in the tent on which to sit besides the ground covered with tarps.

  She shook her head.

  He pulled the pack from his shoulder and set it on the cot, then opened the flap and took out two books that he dropped onto the cot beside the pack. She couldn’t help looking. The top one was Lord Byron’s The Prisoner

  of Chillon.

  “Have you read it?” He’d noticed her glance. She shook her head.

  “I’ll lend it when I’m done.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Unless you’d prefer that one.” He motioned to the copy of The Pioneers that she still held.

  Carina looked down at the book as though it had come into her hands on its own, then set it on the cot beside the other.

  He pulled a cloth-wrapped ham and several jars from his pack, then tossed it aside. “I could flatter myself that you’re here to see me, but I suspect you had a purpose?”

  Must she always act the fool in his presence? “It’s Mr. Beck.”

  He turned from the low shelf where he’d set the jars. “I figured that much.”

  “He’s selling protection.” She could think of no better way to explain it.

  Quillan’s eyes narrowed. “Protection?”

  “The ones who pay are not harassed; the ones who don’t …” She spread her hands. “They all pay.”

  Quillan studied her. “What proof do you have?”

  She felt the blood flush her cheeks and stared at the corner of the tent. “I collected the fees.”

  “What?” His face intensified.

  “He threatened Èmie.” She turned away, hating to seem weak.

  Quillan turned her toward him, his hand on her shoulder gentle but insistent. “You know that makes you an accomplice?”

  She trembled. She was more than an accomplice now. “It’s worse than that. He thinks we’re to be married.”

  Quillan dropped his hand. “Why does he think that?”

  “I accepted his proposal. It was either that or collect fees from the businesses on Hall Street.” She saw him flinch. “Please, you have to get me out of here.” She hadn’t even formed that thought until she spoke it. But now she earnestly prayed he would.

  He looked away, his expression pensive and stern. “I might get you out, but that wouldn’t solve it.”

  “Solve what? He thinks we’ll marry on Saturday. If I—”

  “Give me a minute, Carina.” He strode to the end of the tent and back, holding his jaw, which sported substantial whiskers. He stopped again before her. “He must be recording these collections in the ledger.”

  The ledger? How could he think of the ledger now? “Didn’t you hear me? He wants—”

  “I heard you. If he thinks you’ve accepted him, you’ll have no trouble getting to the ledger. It would be perfectly natural for you to come and go as you’ve been.”

  She spread her hands desperately wide. “I don’t work there any longer.”

  “That’s irrelevant. What eager bride-to-be wouldn’t drop in to see her betrothed?”

  “He knows I’m not eager.”

  Quillan caught her arms and pulled her close. “Pretend.”

  Her heart raced in her chest.

  “Get me the ledger, Carina.” His eyes commanded her attention.

  She couldn’t look away. “And then?”

  “Then we’ll see how the cards fall out.”

  Carina pushed against his chest. “What kind of promise is that?”

  He let her go. “I’ll see that Berkley Beck doesn’t marry you. If I get the ledger into the right hands—”

  “You mean the marshal?”

  Quillan shook his head. “Who then?”

  “Someone level-headed enough to deal with it quickly and not let it escalate.”

  “I don’t understand.” A strand of hair caught in her lips and she pulled it free. “Escalate how?”

  “Vigilantes. Some who are calling for my neck right now. They want justice. They’ve had all they can take of the roughs and they’re scared. Beck has them believing I’m behind it. William Evans knew different, and he was silenced. The merchants won’t stand much more.”

  Carina was silent. It was madness.

  “Just get me the ledger, Carina. It’s got to contain what we need to stop Beck before it all gets out of hand.” His voice softened. “Trust me in this.”

  Trust Quillan Shepard? As she had trusted Berkley Beck? Trusted Flavio? Signore, it’s too much. She dropped her gaze to the small space between them. She felt his hand on her shoulder, in the hair at the nape of her neck. He tipped her head up, and their eyes met.

  “You have to trust me. Plans might already have been made, plans that include you.”

  She gasped with sudden fear. Was it possible? She heard in her mind the invectives against her and knew it was. A high moan started in her throat, and Quillan pulled her into his arms. Pressed close to his chest, she smelled the dust of the road on his shirt and didn’t care. He would protect her. She had to trust him. She had nowhere else to turn. But could she do what he wanted?

  The rap on his tent post brought Quillan to his senses, and he released Carina abruptly. “Who is it?”

  “Alan.”

  Quillan glanced at Carina, but there was no place for her to go. He opened the flap to Alan Tavish, who hurried in and saw Carina at once.

  Quillan closed the flap. “Miss DiGratia brought me news of Beck.”

  Tavish’s face was grave. “Dark news no doubt, but not so dire, I’m afraid, as what I bring ye.”

  Quillan frowned.

  “It’s Daniel Cain, Quillan. He’s dyin’.”

  Quillan’s breath left his chest. D.C. dying?

  “And it’s maybe part of what the lass was tellin’ you. T’was the roughs last Tuesday night.”

  The night he left. He’d ridden out and left Cain and D.C…. No wonder he’d felt so anxious to return!

  “There’s a surgery been done, but the lad won’t waken.”

  Quillan searched Alan’s face, hoping to see there something that lightened his words. He didn’t. A hollowness stole over him. Nothing Carina had said mattered now. He was too late. Whatever he’d meant to do would not save D.C. He suddenly felt tired to the bone. “Where is he?”

  “At Mae’s. And Cain with him, closer to the grave maybe than his boy.”

  Carina stood alone in the tent after the two of them left. Quillan had not even realized she remained. How deeply he must care for that boy and his papa. She felt selfish for running to him with her news, her hopes that he would take care of everything. She had not even thought to tell him of D.C.’s condition, not considered his distress. She had thought only of herself.

  Carina pressed her palm to her forehead, then let it drop. Now what would she do? She had told Quillan her news, and his answer was the same. Get the ledger. It was all he cared about. And it was impossible.

  Bene. She must make it possible. Pretend? She’d never been a pretender. As he said, everything she felt showed to all the world. Well, she must learn to hide it now. She stepped out of the tent, staring at the ground as she hurried away.

  The step beside her startled her, and she looked up into a rough face, not one she knew, but she recognized evil. The man didn’t touch her, but his words did. “Mr. Beck wants to see you.”

  Her breath left in a rush. Her heart raced in her chest. “Why?”

  He only waved her toward the street. Annoyed, she started that way. Had he seen her go to Quillan? Her legs shook as she walked in silence to the office door, then with only a slight hesitation, she pulled it open. Berkley Beck stood inside and turned when she entered. He nodded the man out, and the door closed behind her.

  “A miraculous recovery, my dear.”

  She recalled her half-feigned illness. “The air helped.”

  “So they claim. Remarkable climate.” He was toying with her. He walked to the window and surveyed the street. “Why were you in Q
uillan Shepard’s tent?”

  Her heart lurched, but she didn’t show it. She must not seem defensive. Pretend. She contained her fear and took control of her voice. “I had things to purchase.”

  “From his tent?”

  “From him.”

  “What things?”

  “It’s not your business.” Daring, but convincing.

  He turned. “Why Quillan instead of another freighter?”

  She fought the panic in her mind. Be clear. Tell as much truth as possible. “I don’t know another freighter.”

  “But you know Quillan Shepard.”

  “It would be hard not to. He saved my life.”

  Berkley Beck was silent so long she squirmed under his gaze. Then his chin came up slightly. “I forbid you to see him again.”

  Carina stared, her natural defiance rising. “Would you suggest blinders?”

  His left cheek twitched. “I would suggest you guard your tongue.”

  “You don’t own me. Even in light of our … agreement.”

  “Don’t I?” His eyes turned cold, hard as glass.

  She felt her breath stop, her throat tighten. Her hands quivered at her sides. Then she walked out of his office. She wanted to run, imagined all kinds of ruffians gathering behind her. But she kept her back straight. Pretend!

  Cain sat beside his boy, exhausted and used up. He’d stopped praying in words. He’d said all the good Lord needed to hear. Now the prayer just ached and swelled in his soul as he looked at his son. The shunt had been removed when the drainage ceased, and D.C.’s color was better, his breath coming stronger. But that was all. He just lay there, never moving except for a sporadic fluttering of the eyes.

  Cain glanced up as Quillan came into the room. He must have just returned, just heard the news. Cain saw him react, knew what he thought. The boy was closer to death than life. And it showed. Each day that passed diminished their hope.

  Quillan came and squatted down beside him. “How bad is it?” His voice was hoarse with concern.