The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Mrs. Barton was at the desk. Her face lightened as always at the sight of Quillan. At least there was one person who still thought highly of him, though she scarcely looked at Carina. She held out a key to Quillan and asked, “Dinner?”

  “Thank you.” Quillan put the key into his pocket.

  She took them to a table, and Quillan held Carina’s chair. Carina sank into it a little shakily. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was unaccustomed to the side saddle. Mostly, it was that she hadn’t shared a meal with Quillan since the one she cooked for him, and she was suddenly very aware of his presence.

  He smiled at her discomfort. “How are you such a tyrant on the mountain and such a cinch in town?”

  Carina took umbrage. “I am not a cinch.”

  “You sure let Beck gull you.”

  “I admit I’m not versed in unscrupulous men.”

  “Good thing you ran to my tent.” His pirate’s smile.

  Carina pressed her palms to the table. “I almost liked you earlier.”

  “You like me. Or you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you.”

  “I asked!” Blood rushed to her face, but Mrs. Barton came and stood at their table.

  Quillan demurred to Carina. “What would you like?”

  “I … haven’t looked.”

  “The chicken dumplings are nice tonight.” Mrs. Barton gave her a thin smile.

  Carina nodded and Mrs. Barton turned to Quillan.

  “Beef steak. Rare.” As Mrs. Barton left, he tucked his tongue into his side teeth with a mocking grin that showed he at least was not guided by someone else’s opinion.

  He was insufferable. She leaned forward, almost hissing, “I never asked. And as I recall, you didn’t, either.”

  “I didn’t get down on my knee. But it wasn’t really necessary, was it? You’d already played that one.”

  Carina’s heart sank. Why was he being so cruel? If he thought she was different on the mountain, he was two distinct men. She brushed a wrinkle from the tablecloth and refused to continue the banter. Mocking her situation with Mr. Beck was not only brazen, it was uncalled for.

  She looked over and saw the empty table along the wall, Berkley Beck’s table. Would he come and dine? Or did he even now search for her, thinking to make her his wife? What would he do when he learned of her marriage? She shuddered inside.

  Looking up, she surprised a raw mien on Quillan. Did he know he’d been cruel? Did he care? Mrs. Barton brought their plates, and they ate quietly. Mr. Beck’s table stood empty. Where was he? What was he doing? Carina felt a stabbing fear for Èmie, then recalled that Doctor Simms was sitting the night with her—armed.

  Carina tried to put Berkley Beck from her mind. He was small and mean, but now he would see there was no point in continuing. As Quillan said, he couldn’t marry her if she was married already. She looked up at Quillan. He offered her a conciliating smile, and she returned it.

  She finished her meal just after Quillan finished his. He paid the cheque in cash and stood to hold her chair, then led her out to the lobby. She was unsure now of his intentions. Why had he spoiled the closeness they’d gained on the ride? Was he punishing her for taking him to the mine?

  He led her up the stairs with a hand to her elbow. At the door he stopped and used the key. The room was a suite in blue-and-white watered silk with a lamp of blue crystal ringed with clear pendants on a corner table. It was all complementary and lovely, and the part of her that appreciated such beauty was soothed by it. There was a settee and a low marble table in the sitting room. Someone had put hothouse flowers, red and yellow, in a vase. Mrs. Barton?

  Quillan closed the door, and once again Carina felt his presence shrink the room. He crossed the rug and opened the window to let in the cool evening air. The blue chintz curtain filled like a sail. Then he came and took her waist between his hands. She rested her palms on his chest. Would he apologize?

  Searching her face, he dampened his lips, then, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  Her misgivings fell away. She must have mistaken his intentions, taken affront where none was meant.

  He kissed her lips and then her neck. “I had Mae send over what you’d need for tonight.”

  Carina could scarcely breathe. But then, she’d had little time to prepare herself, and even though she’d loved Flavio for years, she was innocent of many of the details. She went into the room that held the four-poster bed and saw her gown lying across it. The gown had survived any damage, since it had been in her carpetbag and not her trunk, and it was a lovely bit of fancy, as Mae would put it. But Carina felt awkward and self-conscious as she removed the sea green gown and put on the flimsy white batiste garment.

  Her hair was already down, so she merely brushed it with the brush Mae had set on the washstand. Then she washed her face and hands and neck, touching gently the place where Quillan’s lips had been. She scrubbed her teeth and scrutinized them in the mirror. Each one shown like a slender pearl. She stepped back and waited.

  It wasn’t long. Quillan tapped the door, then opened it. He, too, had washed, and stood there, bare to the waist as he’d been under the icy spring. She had a flashing thought of Wolf, but it was Quillan who took her into his arms. Carina was amazed how safe he could make her feel.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the wanting. Quillan silently groaned as he moved his hand beneath her hair lying like a lake surrounding and drowning him. But the visceral wanting, potent, returning even now as Carina slept, wasn’t all.

  Worse by far was the wanting of her, the essence, the depth of her, her mind, her heart, her devotion. All the things that made her who she was. And he knew this wanting would destroy him, day by day eroding the self he’d formed from denying the wants—to be known, to be acknowledged, to be loved. He pressed his eyes closed against the ache.

  He’d spent the first half his life wanting the love of a woman, and the other half purging her from his thoughts and emotions. One kind word, one motherly touch … he’d have lived on it for years. But the first woman who had mattered had given him away. And the second never failed to remind him.

  Now there was Carina. Carina Maria DiGratia. He’d taken her body with his own in a closeness more near to love than anything before, and in that he had jeopardized all that he’d achieved. He groaned again without making a sound. How could he have known that with one rash act he would tear himself open, pour himself out, lose himself in her? And want, want so much for her to feel the same.

  THIRTY

  Is hope a dream?

  —Rose

  CARINA WOKE TO THE unfamiliar feel of soft sheets, soft bed. She brushed her fingers over the fine linen pillow slip, not recognizing the scalloped work along the edge. And then she did. She looked furtively across the bed, but it was empty.

  Was it possible she had dreamed him there? Turning swiftly, she searched the room. It, too, was empty. She sank back into the pillow, as soft and different from what she’d slept on these last nights as the rest of it. Everything was different. She was different. She was no longer Carina DiGratia. She was Mrs. Quillan Shepard in name and reality.

  Closing her eyes, she slipped from the bed to her knees on the floor and crossed herself. Oh, Signore … She hadn’t thought to love him. The man who sent her wagon over, the man with the pirate smile who could be dangerous, yet made her feel so safe …

  She loved him. And it was both frightening and wonderful. It was not as she’d loved Flavio, the yearning to understand but never understanding. Flavio was a mirage. Quillan was real. She loved the realness of him, the rightness of him. She felt renewed, awakened, alive, eager for the things that would make up their life together.

  He was pleased with her cannelloni, but would he like sausage and peppers? She would learn his likes and dislikes. She would tell him her stories, and he would tell his. They would laugh and maybe cry. And in the silence their hearts would join. She folded her hands and rested her forehead on the peaked fi
ngers. Signore, thank you for this day and for this husband….

  There was a noise, and she turned to see Quillan in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a cotton flannel shirt. His gun hung at his hip, and his hat was in his hands. He took in her position with a slow gaze, then leaned his hip to the doorjamb. “Praying for deliverance?”

  The taunt was back in his tone, the cruelty in his eyes. What was he doing? He wanted to hurt her. She couldn’t mistake it this time. She stood up. Self-conscious in her batiste gown, she clasped her hands beneath her chin.

  His mouth softened, and for a moment she saw the tenderness in his eyes, then it was gone. “I’ve paid Mae to keep you.”

  “Mae?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’d prefer my tent?”

  “But …”

  “I’m not around much, Carina. You’ll be better off at Mae’s.”

  She felt a stone in her stomach. He would not make a home with her?

  He pushed off from the doorjamb and straightened. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

  He was leaving? “Where are you going?”

  “I have a job to do.”

  She rushed toward him without thinking. “But what about Mr. Beck?”

  Quillan put the hat on his head. “It’s all about town that we married. It won’t escape his notice.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She closed her hands into fists. “What if he retaliates?”

  “I expect he will. What do you think this was all about?”

  He might have slapped her, so unjust and painful were his words. Her jaw dropped with the shock of it, but he didn’t see. He had turned and walked away. Cinch. He had called her a cinch, and here was the proof of it. He had married her only to spite Berkley Beck, to force his hand.

  Carina felt numb, stupid, unable to move or think. And then the fury hit with the force of the flood. It took an interminable time to wash and change into the beige skirt and blouse Mae had sent from Carina’s room. She was thankful she didn’t have to wear the wedding dress. She wished never to see it again and forced it into the carpetbag with disgust.

  Omaccio. Cialtrone. What did she care? He was a rogue. She snatched up her bag and left the room. Downstairs, she smacked the key on the counter and left without a word to Mrs. Barton, who stood all smiles behind the polished wood. She pressed through the milling crowd, ignoring the greetings. She turned the corner at Drake and fairly ran. Mae was in the kitchen frying hot cakes, and Carina threw herself into her arms.

  Mae dropped the spatula and held her close. “There, there. The first time’s always the worst.”

  If only it were that. Carina’s heart ached with more than maidenly discomfort. She sobbed, furious, humiliated, and once again betrayed.

  “Now, lamb. It’s not so bad as all that.”

  “He’s gone.” Let Mae think her heartsick.

  “But he’ll be back.”

  That thought was hardly comforting. But with a sniff, Carina pulled away and wiped her eyes. She was acting foolish, as foolish as she felt. How had she thought his tenderness real? He was Quillan Shepard, rogue, pirate, omaccio.

  Mae smiled. “That’s better.” She bent and scooped up the spatula. “Now I’ve burnt these.” She turned back to the stove. Her life was undisturbed, unchanged from yesterday, the same as tomorrow.

  Only Carina’s existence was turned about, inside out. With a shaky breath she gathered herself and left the kitchen. Stepping outside, she saw Dr. Simms, and suddenly the weight of everything returned. Èmie. Mr. Beck. What was Quillan thinking, leaving her to face it all? But face it she must.

  She hurried to the doctor. “How is Èmie?”

  He turned, his thoughts obviously occupied, then he half smiled. “Èmie? Remarkable.”

  Carina’s concern eased. “Then she’s healing.”

  He nodded, still bemused, then seemed to catch himself with a slight shake of his head. “Yes, she’s healing.”

  “Thank God. May I see her?”

  “Yes. Yes, actually she was asking for you.”

  Carina picked up her skirts and ran, slowing only as she neared Èmie’s cabin. She didn’t see Father Antoine, but he could be inside with his niece. She didn’t want to be reminded of the rite he had performed the day before, the marriage she had entered into with good faith. Good faith.

  Signore … But the word was empty. What good was faith when no one could be trusted? What good was God, who twisted and spun her until she was reeling and bleeding inside? Carina stopped outside the door. She must go in, must succor Èmie, though her own heart was ragged.

  She went inside. Father Antoine was not there. Only Èmie lay on her cot, sleeping and seemingly peaceful. Carina knelt beside her. She lifted Èmie’s hand, noting the length and shape of the fingers. The ends were blunt, but they were good hands, strong hands. Her heart ached.

  Èmie stirred. Carina leaned over her. Èmie opened her eyes, both eyes now, though neither as wide as they should. The swelling was less, but the bruising darker. Èmie smiled faintly. “I knew you were here.”

  Carina cupped her hand. “Yes, I’m here.” But she couldn’t be there always. Who else did Èmie have? Her uncle? Carina shuddered. “Èmie, who did this?”

  Èmie’s face shadowed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Èmie touched the swelling along one cheekbone. “Jesus said to turn the other cheek.”

  “I can’t believe that’s what He meant.”

  “He meant we must forgive the wrongs against us.”

  Carina felt her chest clutch suddenly. Was that it? Did her own unforgiveness cause all this misfortune in her life? She recalled Father Charboneau’s words. “Justice is more noble than vengeance. But better than both is mercy.” Did the priest feel merciful now? Did he pardon his brother for this crime against Èmie? If so, he was no man.

  “He didn’t want to do it.” Èmie’s voice was low, gentle, and sad.

  She pitied her assailant? Her uncle? Impossible!

  Èmie closed her eyes. “I forgive him.”

  Carina pushed away from the bed and crossed the room. It wasn’t possible. How could Èmie forgive the one who did this? She rebelled at the idea. Then she recalled her own part in it. Did Èmie know it was because of her that Mr. Beck had ordered her beaten?

  “Carina.” Èmie reached up a hand.

  Slowly she returned to Èmie’s side and dropped to the floor beside the bed.

  Èmie clutched her hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  Tears stung Carina’s eyes. “Then you know. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. But I forgive you, too.”

  With a sob, Carina brought Èmie’s hand to her lips. “Why? How can you forgive me for causing you this pain?”

  Èmie smiled crookedly. “God doesn’t allow anything that isn’t for my good.”

  Carina couldn’t speak. How could a loving God allow Èmie to suffer? How could it be for her good? It made no sense. She stood when Dr. Simms returned, but her hand and Èmie’s lingered together. Carina drew a long, shaking breath and broke the contact.

  Èmie’s eyes turned to Dr. Simms. Carina watched in amazement as the bruised and swollen face of her friend transformed. Èmie was in love.

  Quillan pulled himself into the box and took up the reins. Masterson had insisted he make himself scarce until things were sorted out. There was still the matter of Beck’s innuendoes, and Masterson didn’t want anything clouding the picture. But Quillan didn’t intend to go far, one day to Fairplay and back the next. In his absence Masterson and the other trustees would amass enough men to subdue the roughs, then remove McCollough from office and vote in another marshal, one with the guts to arrest Berkley Beck.

  If the crooked trustees caught wind of it, they’d undoubtedly inform Beck, and he wouldn’t relinquish power without a fight. It could get ugly, but Masterson and company were willing to take that chance. With the merchants
and those who’d suffered the treatment of the roughs behind them, Crystal’s notables were ready to make an end of it. It was a sound plan, and Quillan felt some relative confidence.

  “Quillan!”

  Quillan turned in surprise as D.C. strode up. His head still bore the bandage, but his color was high and there was a spring in his step. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I have a clean bill. Dr. Felden thought I should take the air. I thought maybe I could ride along with you.”

  “I’m not taking responsibility for a kid with a hole in his head.”

  D.C. grinned. “That hole’s as good as closed up. And if I sit around one more day with nothing to do, I’ll go crazy!”

  “That’s strange. I thought you’d reached new heights in avoiding work.”

  D.C. laughed. “That’s about what Daddy said.”

  “Get up, then.” Quillan waved him over. “Does Cain know you’re coming?”

  D.C. looked a little sheepish. “He knows.”

  “D.C.” Quillan was not going to be party to D.C.’s shenanigans.

  “It was his idea, all right?” D.C. pulled himself into the box.

  Quillan considered that. Maybe Cain felt the boy needed a change of venue. Maybe he wanted him under a watchful eye as he tried his wings again, recovered his strength. Quillan could do that. This was a short trip.

  “Get comfortable. Your backside will come to know that spot before the day’s over.”

  “I remember.” D.C. looked none too pleased at the prospect.

  It could have been any of the days he and the boy had started out before Cain’s mine had struck ore. Then D.C. had dropped freighting like a scalding iron. But he’d helped haul the ore on occasion, and Quillan liked his company. There weren’t too many he’d invite aboard, and of those he would, most were too arthritic and crippled to stand it.

  But for all his youth and inexperience, D.C. was a fine companion. He knew when to talk and when to keep still. Quillan felt a degree of normalcy having D.C. on the box with him. And that was good. He didn’t want to think how his life was suddenly altered, though any recollection of last night made that impossible.