THIRTY-TWO
How does one accept a miracle? Humbly.
—Rose
THEY’D MADE EXCELLENT TIME, but D.C. looked fatigued when they reached Fairplay an hour past noon. Quillan guessed the trip had been too much for him so soon after a serious injury. He jumped down from the box and circled around. D.C. didn’t want his help, but he’d be there if the boy lost his balance. He looked pale enough when he lighted.
“You all right?”
D.C. nodded.
Quillan gripped his shoulder. “Get us a room. Tell them it’s Quillan Shepard and they’ll have something.”
“I can help….”
“No sense pushing it. Get the room and lie down.”
“This morning I thought I never wanted to see a bed again.”
Quillan smiled. “Well, one’s calling you now.”
D.C. didn’t argue. He headed off for the Fairplay House, and Quillan got to work. The purpose of this trip might be to remove him from Crystal while Masterson handled Beck, but he’d make it a profitable one anyway. Buying from the merchants at Fairplay left little margin for profit. But if he was shrewd, he’d garner something.
It felt good to occupy himself. He thrived on work, hauling the heavy bags of grain, the barrels of flour and sugar and salt, straining with the box of steels and feeling the muscles in his back and arms and legs. Only when the wagon was fully loaded and the tarp tied down did he relax. And now he was hungry. He’d collect D.C. and get them a decent meal.
D.C. was asleep, but when Quillan touched his shoulder and suggested food, the boy came wide awake. He seemed to have profited greatly from the nap and sat up eagerly. “As Daddy always says, ‘My belly button’s sayin’ howdy to my backbone.’ ”
“Then let’s put some distance between them.”
D.C. did the meal justice. Quillan remembered being that voracious. It hadn’t been that long for him. But as he ate the mediocre fare, he thought of the meal Carina had cooked him. Beyond the delight of her company, the food had made a memorable impression. She had a gift and a heart for it.
He considered for a moment that he could have that sort of meal every night if he chose. She was his wife. All he had to do was pick up the sorts of things he’d gotten for her before and … He stopped the thought and stared at the mealy cornbread and chuck roast before him.
“Aren’t you hungry?” D.C. looked covetous.
Quillan slid him the plate. “Have at it.”
“You sure?”
“No, D.C., I’m going to knock you on the head if you touch it.” As soon as the words were out, he realized how inappropriate they were. He flushed with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He forked the hair back from his face.
“It’s okay.” D.C. slid the plate close and started shoveling. “I guess you’re missing Carina.”
Quillan scowled. He couldn’t exactly argue, because with D.C.’s words he’d felt an acute ache inside. Yes, he missed her. He wished she were there that minute so he could grab her into his arms and show her … show her what? That he hadn’t meant to hurt her? That he loved her. Yes, he loved her. He pushed back from the table, suddenly tight all over.
D.C. waved his fork. “In some ways, you and I are alike.”
Quillan glared. He wasn’t in the mood for D.C. to philosophize.
“I mean I never knew my mother, and you—”
“D.C.”
The boy looked up.
“Shut your mouth and eat your food.”
D.C. grinned. “That’s one of those things Daddy would say. How can you eat if you shut your mouth?”
Quillan gave him a look that said more than words.
“You’re ornerier than I thought. Must be missing her awful bad.”
Quillan was making a fool of himself to a kid too wet behind the ears to … and then he recalled that D.C.’s experience exceeded his own, if you considered his visits to Hall Street. Quillan shuddered inside. It was an ugly thought.
He slid his chair out and stood. “Put the bill on the room.” Then he walked out.
The tension wouldn’t leave him, however. As he stalked through the streets of Fairplay, Quillan felt tighter and tighter. Something wasn’t right. Yes, he was exasperated with D.C. and angry with himself for doing something so utterly stupid in marrying Carina. But it was more. It was as he’d felt the night William Evans was killed. A feeling of impending doom.
It sounded overly dramatic even to himself. What could happen? Masterson would be quietly amassing his men even now. They’d be arming themselves and passing the word to their friends and partners. Crystal had reached the breaking point, and the moment Beck tried anything, there’d be a force arrayed against him he couldn’t imagine.
So why did Quillan chafe? What was he missing? And then it struck him. Berkley Beck was not the kind to take his insult lying down. Yet there’d been no response whatever to the wedding. Was Beck brooding over some particularly nasty revenge?
A chill found him even in the afternoon heat. Quillan stopped walking and stood with dread immobilizing his legs. Would Beck commit one last heinous act before going down in defeat? A surge of fear rushed him. Carina? His throat grew tight, hands clenched at his sides.
He turned on his heel and rushed back to the Fairplay House. D.C. stood outside on the porch surveying the town. Quillan strode up and gripped his shoulder. He turned him and shoved some bills into his hand. “Cancel the room, D.C. We’re not staying the night.”
“We’re not?”
But Quillan was already crossing to the livery. He found the ostler wrangling with a customer and shouldered his way in. “I need to leave my wagon. And I need two horses, your freshest and best.” Because he had a relationship with Ferguson, the man turned from the difficult customer and nodded.
“Park the wagon inside. I’ll have two animals saddled and ready.”
The customer began blustering, but Quillan was half running out the door. He maneuvered the wagon, already full and ready for the drive up, into the back of the livery. But Quillan didn’t care what he lost from it. He paid Ferguson and led the two geldings outside to the street where D.C. waited.
He gave the boy a serious look-over. “Can you make the ride up? Maybe I should have let you keep the room.”
“I can make it. What’s happened?”
“Nothing that I know of. Just a feeling.”
D.C. didn’t laugh. He took the reins of the bay and mounted. “Daddy said to listen when you had a feeling. He said God talks to you.”
Frowning, Quillan mounted. He couldn’t explain the urgency he felt, but he wouldn’t believe it was God. They weren’t on speaking terms.
Cain hobbled into the livery where Alan Tavish stood at the open doors, rubbing his chin with slow strokes.
“Now, what would the lass be about …?”
While Sam circled, then settled at his feet, Cain followed Alan’s gaze up the gulch. He saw no sign of a lass. Did he mean Quillan’s bride? “What are you gawkin’ at?”
Alan sighed and turned. “Sure and it’s nothin’. But Miss DiGratia’s away up the gulch there.”
“Mrs. Quillan Shepard, you mean. Did Quillan give you any indication a’tall he meant to marry her?”
Alan grinned. “None that he intended, mind ye.”
Cain raised his brows.
“Cain, are ye blind, man? He’s smitten sure.”
“No.” Cain slipped the crutches from under his arms and settled onto a barrel. “I’d have seen if he were smitten.”
“Not if ye weren’t lookin’. But then ye’ve had other concerns.”
“True enough. Still, I’m not easy in my mind about this. Seems awful suddenlike.”
“ ’Tis.” Alan nodded. He pulled his pipe from his pocket, tapped it, and lit the tobacco that half filled the bowl.
“It’s a sorry thing when a man, who you consider a son, falls in love right under your nose, and you take no notice a’tall,” Cain stated.
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p; “Aye. But then Quillan’s not like other men. T’wouldn’t surprise me if he’s fightin’ himself over it all.”
Cain considered that. “That would explain his sour face this morning.”
“And the way he barked at me, then apologized as though t’were St. Michael himself he’d offended.” Alan laughed. “The man’s in love, but he’s not sure he wants to be.”
“What about her?” Cain waved toward the woman somewhere up the gulch. “Does she love him?”
“Aye.”
Cain slapped his knee. “You know what I think? I think there’s a heap of romance wanderin’ around in your head that just wants a place to fix.”
Alan drew on his pipe. “ ’Tis possible. But I dinna think so.”
Cain leaned as far out the door as he could. “What else have these old eyes missed? You seen Beck?”
Alan swiveled his head. “Bit queer, that. Saw him last evenin’ with a face like thunder. Sure and t’was for Quillan stealin’ his bride.”
A sight Cain would have relished himself. Not that I take pleasure in misfortune, but even King David appreciated how the wicked had fallen.
Alan puffed smoke from the side of his mouth. “I have’na seen him since.”
“Think he cleared out?”
Alan shook his head.
Frowning, Cain said, “Quillan expected he’d respond, don’t ya know.”
“Aye. With the town ready when he did.”
“Well, Beck’s just weasel enough to save his own tail and let the others roast.”
“I dinna think he’s gone. I’d wager he’s away inside there, thinkin’ thoughts as no one wants to know.”
Cain reached for his crutches, and Sam’s head came up. “Let him stay there till they come and haul ‘im off to justice.” He pulled himself up on the crutches, and his dog leaped up, willing and ready. Cain worried Sam’s ears. “Nothing like a dawg for pure devotion.”
Alan smiled. “Sure, the dumb creatures know best.” He tapped his temple. “Dinna think they don’t.”
Cain hobbled outside, squinting in the brightness. God sure knew what he was about when he made dogs. But just now Sam circled him, making every swing of the crutches difficult. “What’re you doin’, you fool dawg? Heel now.”
Sam moved obediently behind but whined about it. Cain grinned. “You’ve gotten spoiled, don’t ya know.” He swung himself out past the livery to the backside of the new smithy. He nodded to the giant Swede inside, arms bare and slick with sweat. Then he passed on. Halfway behind the bootier, his dog began to growl. Cain stopped and half turned when he heard the swish, then the blow tumbled him down.
April 31, 1851 If there is a hell I have found it. Yet here I find a welcome, and the price is no more than I paid to lose everything before. Placerville. I rode up today in a wagon filled with wretched men. My heart quakes at what lies ahead. But I forsook all for my lover’s embrace and his fleeting devotion. I have chosen my part, and now it remains to see how well I can play the fool.
The shadows grew long and Carina knew she should think about returning to town, but she felt so reluctant to leave the site of this lonely marker, this mountain grave. How could she mourn someone she never knew? Yet she did. She had felt the affinity before she loved Quillan, felt it the first time she rode up to the Rose Legacy mine. Did Rose reach out to her from the grave? Was that possible?
She thought of the tale Fisher had told of the child, Jessie Rae, playing her mandolin on dark rainy nights. Did these mountains hold the souls that passed here? Did they roam after dark? Did Rose and Wolf remain in an embrace that forever bound them to this earthly realm?
Carina shook her head. She had read nothing yet of Wolf and how they came to be together. She should go, but the thought of riding down to
Crystal and facing the ugliness, the fear, even the noise … She could stay a while yet. There was so much still to know. She read on.
May 1, 1851 What strange quirk of fate, to be saved from disgrace by a savage. Yet is he more a savage than those who would have bought me? Who is this man? A stranger, yet when he found me with his eyes, I knew him. His name is Fate. He knew me by my pain, and I him, by his. We are bound together, he and I.
As i am bound to your son. Whether he wants me or not.
June 1, 1851 To find beauty is to know mercy. Wolf is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, his hair next to honey, his skin bronzed by the sun, but his eyes the color of a stormy sky. What miracle joins one heart to another? Standing under the night stars, Wolf wrapped a blanket around us both, the Indian way of choosing me for his wife. Then we spoke our vows with only God and the mountain to hear. Would anyone recognize what we have done? Or would they say our pact is false and consider me still what I was? It matters less than it did. Cruelty sustained loses its barb.
Carina smiled. How true. The human capacity for suffering was like that for joy. It could only have the greatest impact in small doses. After that, mind and body could no longer take it in. Hadn’t Papa told her that?
June 13, 1851 Wolf is solicitous in every way. I’ve told him more than I ever thought to share. When I spoke of losing the baby, he grew quiet. Maybe he, too, has lost a child. He tells me little about himself but speaks readily about the things he knows. He is wonderfully versed in nature and all her aspects. In every way we live at one with the mountain and forest, every way but one. He mines the ground from dawn till dusk, delving deeper and deeper with a ferocity and energy both wondrous and frightening. He will not relent. He tells me he must. I think he fights to find his identity.
Carina thought of Quillan, always moving, always working, tirelessly seeking something. His identity? Perhaps there was more of Wolf in him than their storm-colored eyes.
June 15, 1851 Is hope a dream? I’ve named the baby Angel. Wolf says his spirit must have a name to find its way to heaven. Imagining him there with God eases my pain. Yet I long still for the life that was lost, though I despised it, wishing even to do it harm. How perverse is the human spirit. I would give my life to have it back again.
July 1, 1851 There is a God, and He is merciful. He has looked upon an unworthy soul with pity and filled my heart with joy. I have yet to tell Wolf, but I entrust my secret to this page. I am once again with child.
Quillan. Carina knew it without reading on. He was the fruit of Rose and Wolf’s union, not that of her unconscionable beau. Would he be as glad to know that as Carina was?
I cannot find it in me to regret. Is there a marriage on earth more blessed by God than the joining of two hearts in simple fidelity? Yet when Father Charboneau came to us a fortnight ago, Wolf insisted our marriage be sanctified by the Christian rite. For my part I accepted his wisdom, and this child is proof of God’s blessing.
Father Charboneau. He had married Wolf and Rose? Then Quillan’s wasn’t an illegitimate birth as he thought. Carina turned the page and read on. Rose’s writings at this point were devoted to many things. She began detailing the flora she found in her walks on the mountain. Did she only now begin to see what was around her? Did the life inside awaken her to the beauty?
Carina imagined it so. With Quillan growing inside her, Rose seemed to have recaptured the joy she had lost. She described the falls and the sunrise over the peaks. The pages were filled with prose and attempts at verse. There were even some drawings of wild flowers. These were labeled with names Carina guessed to be Sioux.
Did Rose bring them home for wolf to name when he came out of the mine? Rose wrote of her concern for him. What did it matter to her if he found gold? They had everything she could want already.
I told Wolf that, but he only looked at me with his stormy eyes. He needs something he thinks he can find only by bringing gold from the ground.
September 12, 1852 I know why Wolf plumbs the earth. He is searching for his soul. The Sioux never accepted him. Though others were adopted into the people and became Sioux, Wolf was always separate. He is caught between two worlds, not Sioux, not white. It is the needi
ng of gold he seeks. If he needs it as they do, he will be one of them. For my part, I would as soon he were not.
The sun continued its westering. Still carina read. She read Rose’s account of the aspens turning golden, the leaves falling. Snows came, one perilously close to burying them alive in their cabin. Father charboneau spent christmas eve with them. Rose cooked rabbit.
January 8, 1852 How does one accept a miracle? Humbly. The child grows large within me. I no longer fear his fate will be that of my Angel’s. This one is strong and eager for the world. He will make his own name.
Carina touched the page with quivering fingers. Quillan. Strong and eager for the world. She felt a measure of Rose’s pride. That child was her husband. She closed the journal and breathed deeply, thankful Father Antoine had given it to her. Had he known she would love Quillan better for reading it?
She knew him now, understood the force of his personality. Even in the womb he’d made his presence known. She closed her eyes and pictured him. Oh, Signore, how I love him. She recalled Rose’s words. Is there a marriage on earth more blessed by God than the joining of two hearts in simple fidelity?
If only she could have the chance. She drew the mountain air into her lungs and longed for his return. Surely he would love her. Once he knew her heart.
Quillan rode beside D.C., careful not to push the horses harder than they could stand, but the need to push was inside him. He shouldn’t have gone. The premonition of something bad gripped him. For once D.C. was quiet, and Quillan wondered if he felt it, too. He didn’t ask, though.
He noticed the horses’ strain and expelled his breath in frustration. “We’ve got to let them blow.” The way was steep and the air thin. Pushed too hard, a horse would get spraddle-legged with ribs heaving and the breath rattling in its throat. It would be dead by nightfall. They dismounted and lightly watered the geldings, then simply let them rest.
The Rose Legacy Page 42