The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Quillan rubbed the back of his own neck. “Where’s Cain?”

  The doctor looked up and removed his spectacles. “Cain? Quillan … he’s dead. I thought you knew.”

  Quillan felt his legs leave him. He leaned against the wall, weak and numb.

  “Whoa, there.” Dr. Felden caught him by the shoulders and made him sit.

  Cain, dead? Cain? His voice wouldn’t come.

  “I’m sorry, Quillan. They knocked him in the head and drowned him in the creek. It’s what started all this hullabaloo.”

  Quillan sagged. So that was it. His chest filled with a throbbing sorrow. His eyes burned, and he dropped his face to his hands. No …

  “It’s a shock. Let me give you a powder.”

  Quillan shook his head, dragged himself up. Not Cain! It exploded inside him like a poisoned organ bursting. Who had struck the blow? Which one dragged a helpless old man to the creek and left him to drown? Hang them all! Let them kick their life away, gasping and gagging.

  He staggered to the doorway, still open to the night, and gripped the frame. Cain, Cain, Cain … It pounded in his head. If he let himself, he would break down and cry. Cry for the man he loved like a father. Cain …

  He passed through the doorway. He had to think. He turned and headed for Central. Before he reached the livery doors, Alan met him with the extra horse, again anticipating his need. He saw Alan’s discomfort. But that didn’t ease the anger.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Alan gripped his arm. “It canna be changed.”

  Quillan snatched Alan’s shirt and yanked him close. “Why did they kill Cain?” He shook him. “Why?”

  “Ye know why, Quillan.”

  Quillan dropped Alan, scalded by his words. Cain was dead because of him? Because he’d married Carina? His stomach clenched up. Beck had struck back. And the pain was lethal. As Beck had known it would be.

  Alan hung his head, the crags of his face deep with regret. “Dinna blame yerself, Quillan.”

  Quillan dropped his face to his hands and groaned. Don’t blame himself? Who, then? In his hubris he’d provoked this ghastly act. To have the victory over Beck, he’d sacrificed Cain. He felt gray. “Where’s D.C.?”

  “With the Reverend Baylor.”

  “He knows?”

  “Aye.”

  So. He’d be saved the boy’s grief at least. Quillan took hold of the saddled gelding. He dragged himself up and started for the gulch. However ill-fated their pact, he must see Carina safe.

  Carina sat huddled in the blanket she’d found tied to the back of the saddle. She had tethered the horse directly outside the entrance to the mine and sat so close she could smell the mare’s grassy breath. She had left her saddled and bridled in case … in case they came after her.

  The clouds had dissolved and left a palette of stars smeared at one edge while mist lingered in the east. The gibbous moon silvered the mountainside, which she searched repeatedly, shivering with more than the cold. Would they hang her from the rafters, too?

  Every time she looked up, she saw Berkley Beck’s ghastly countenance, his arms hanging slack, his head askew. She pressed her hands to her eyes, heard the shouts and screams. “Get Beck’s woman!”

  She shuddered. If not for Mae … Mae had died protecting her. She recalled the thump of bullets striking Mae, the buckling, the fall. Carina heard a low wailing and realized it was her own. She clamped a hand to her mouth. She must make no sound.

  Codarda. Coward. She had let Mae die. She should have stood away, let them take her, should never have run to Mae’s, led them there. It was her fault. Oh, Signore, why? Her mind tormented her with images. Men hanging from the rafters.

  She could have hung there, too. If not for Quillan. He had rescued her from the clutches of wicked men, as wicked as Mr. Beck and all the others. The hatred was the same. Carina shuddered. Why had Quillan sent her alone?

  A sound made her stiffen, fear coursing through her. Should she run? Jump on the mare and ride? Her legs were weak; her body trembled. She clutched the blanket to her chin, eyes wide and searching. A horse climbed, and in the silvery light she saw him, his hair loose, his body inclined weakly in the saddle. She felt a surge of love. Quillan was good. He was strong and brave and good.

  He slid down and stood on the ledge before the mine, a silhouette against the stars. Then he uncinched and tugged the saddle from his horse and dropped it to the ground. He did the same for her mare. He must believe them safe. He untied a blanket and shook it free, then walked toward the tunnel.

  Carina sprang toward him, but he stopped her rush. With a firm hand he put her back from him. “Don’t.”

  She wanted to speak. A thousand questions burned. But he was separate in his silence. He sank down against the wall and wrapped himself in the blanket. His chin dropped, and he wept, a silent weeping worse than anything she’d seen.

  What could she say, what could she do? She knew instinctively he would reject her touch, her words. Pray. All she could do was pray for God’s peace. Did Quillan believe in God? Did he know Him? It didn’t matter. She did.

  Morning. A thrush opened its throat. Cold, wind-washed air. Chartreuse aspen leaves ignited by the molten orb entering the eastern sky. Carina was dazed by light and color, everything heightened, dazzling her waking eyes.

  Quillan slept beside her, sitting against the wall, self-contained in his blanket. His face was haggard. His dreams were not peaceful. Neither were hers. She slipped her blanket off and stood. Quillan didn’t move.

  She pushed past the mare and the grulla gelding Quillan had ridden up, stopping at the edge of the circle and dropping to her knees. Signore, thank you for this day. She might not have had it. This morning would have come, but she might not have lived to see it. You have spared my life, saved me from those who would have done me harm. Grazie, Signore. Grazie. She glanced back at the mine tunnel. And please help my husband.

  She had guessed last night that it was Cain he grieved. She knew nothing that could lessen that grief, nothing but time and tenderness and God. Per piacere, Signore, bring him peace.

  She stood and started down the path on foot. One side of her slipper had torn out, and the lace of her gown hung in ragged strips. But she was sound, and she marveled at it. She was unharmed, though the malice had nearly overwhelmed and destroyed her.

  She thought of Berkley Beck. Had he known they would take her when they found them together? Is that what he’d meant, that he could only hope to take her with him? Could he have hated her so much? If not for Mae …

  Her chest clutched, and again her throat filled with tears. Why hadn’t God spared Mae? He could have. And Cain. He could have spared Quillan his pain and Carina her own. Tears filled her eyes as she struggled to accept that somehow it was right, it was for her good. But how? Her mind would not accept that. So her spirit must.

  She heard the spring ahead and walked to it. There she pulled off her dress and slippers and all her undergarments. The morning air raised her skin to gooseflesh, but she stepped into the gushing water and gasped. In its biting flow, she scrubbed her hair and skin, washing away the fear-sweat and filth. She bared her teeth and opened her mouth until the spring had thoroughly cleansed it. With violent shivers and teeth chattering, she stepped out and wrung the water from her hair.

  Her wet skin stung in the morning chill, and she shivered as she pulled on her chemise and bloomers, corset and crinoline. She reached for her dress and startled as a motion caught the corner of her eye. Quillan stood at the curve of the path. She clutched the ruined dress to her breast, trying to read his mood.

  How long had he stood there? Had he watched her bathe? Did he think her beautiful? Could he think of her at all with the horror of last night hanging over them? He was so grim, so silent. He came around the bend, cupped his hands in the water and scrubbed his face, then doused his hair and flung it back.

  He dried his face with his sleeve. “When you’re dressed we’ll go.”

&
nbsp; There was no cruelty in his tone, but it was colder than the spring. He started up the path, and Carina sighed. Before putting on the dress, she tore away the ragged lace she had sewn with such care. It was good for nothing now.

  Quillan’s chest was tight. When he’d seen her with the spring rushing over, his breath had literally stopped. He’d appreciated such poetic descriptions, but now he knew it was physical reality. Beauty in its purest form could suspend the breath.

  He made his way back up the path away from her, away from what she made him feel, from the wanting. How could he want her now? If not for their union, Cain would be alive. It was a hot poker inside him. His need to win had cost him the person he loved most in the world. Maybe the only person he loved.

  Cain. What good had his faith done him in the end? Cain would have an answer to that, Quillan thought grimly, but he wasn’t alive to voice it. He reached the Rose Legacy, rounded up the grazing horses, and saddled them. Carina came up the path, and he knew he was wrong. Cain wasn’t the only one he loved. He watched her approach. The dress that he’d thought so fine was superfluous. It detracted. He turned away, yanked the cinch, then felt her beside him.

  “We’re going back to Crystal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But …” Her voice quavered, and her hand went to her throat, saying more than words.

  He turned. “Do you think they’ll string you up in the light of day?” He saw her shudder and reached a hand to her shoulder. “It’s over and done.”

  She searched his face, but he gave her nothing. One crack, and she would seep back in. Even the feel of her shoulder in his hand was too much. He let go. She fit her foot into the stirrup, and he assisted her onto the mare, then mounted the gelding.

  He led and she followed. He was glad for the separate horses. The last time they’d done this was too clear in his mind. With her in the saddle against his chest, he’d first imagined how it would be to love her. Now he knew.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Doubt erodes my soul.

  —Rose

  CARINA WATCHED QUILLAN’S BACK, straight and unyielding as he rode before her. All around them, the gulch was full of life, tiny birds flitting, the hum of bees, the murmuring creek, and the breeze itself carrying the scent of flowering fields. But he seemed oblivious, cut off from it, from her.

  Couldn’t they comfort each other, find strength and solace? At least share their grief? She thought of his silent weeping. It had not emasculated him. It had shown him capable of great love. She stared at his back. His hair hung free, flying loose with the breeze. Beyond him she saw the first buildings of Crystal, but she was too insensate to feel afraid.

  As they entered, he reined slightly and allowed her to come alongside. They passed Drury, then Spruce, then Drake. Along Central before the livery lay bodies, covered in blankets, and she began to shake. They’d been cut down and awaited burial. She stared at them, lying like furrows along the street. One, she knew, was Berkley Beck.

  She jumped when someone grabbed her waist and realized Quillan had dismounted and was lifting her down. She was vaguely aware of Alan Tavish leading the horses away. Quillan had hold of her arm and walked her toward Mae’s. A sob caught in her chest. At the house, he opened the door, but still he wouldn’t speak.

  Carina’s voice was a ghost. “Where have they put Mae?”

  “Inside.”

  Grazie, Dio. They’d not yet put her in the grave. Carina turned without a word, made her way to Mae’s bedroom, and waited at the closed door. Then drawing a deep breath, she went in. Dr. Felden held vigil, his hands clasped and head bowed. Carina would not have thought him so devout.

  She looked at the bed. They had covered her in blankets to her neck. Her hands lay atop, but not crossed. Only one bent over the mound of her belly. Posed as she was, she appeared sleeping, not dead. Carina pressed her eyes closed against the grief. They flew open at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

  Dr. Felden’s eyes were red-rimmed. “Would you like to sit with her?”

  Carina looked again at the bed. She had attended the body of her bisnonna and the cook whose heart had stopped while serving antipasti to Mamma’s guests. But this was different. Mae was dead because of her.

  “It’s not likely she’ll wake with the dose of morphine I’ve given her.”

  The doctor was speaking, but she wasn’t hearing him right.

  “Mrs. Shepard?”

  She turned to him slowly.

  “On second thought, maybe I’d better mix you a powder. Mae’s going to sleep awhile, and it looks as though you should, too.”

  “But … she’s not dead?”

  He raised his brows. “Not last I looked. She berated me this morning for spoiling her skirt. Said she could have patched the bullet holes, but I had to go and make ribbons of it.” He chuckled. “No, she’s too ornery to be dead.”

  Carina collapsed and he barely caught her before lowering her to the chair. “Young woman, I’m putting you to bed.”

  “No!” Her fear must have shown.

  “If it’s last night you’re thinking of, don’t. That ugly business is over and done.”

  Over and done. So Quillan had said also. But how could it be? Could the men who did the killing simply go back to work? She thought of the bodies lying in the street. Would they be buried and forgotten? Who were they to forget such a thing?

  Carina dropped her head to her hands. “I want to sit with Mae.”

  He frowned but left her alone.

  Slowly the realization penetrated her stupor. Mae was alive!

  Quillan stood with D.C. at Cain’s grave. A stone had been put in place, previously quarried from the mountain and hastily carved. Cain Jeremiah Bradley 1810–1880. It said nothing about the old man who lay beneath it. But then, Quillan had no words either, and D.C. wanted none. Did the boy blame him? He blamed himself. Oh, Cain.

  He had never felt such a loss. Not when he left the Shepards, not when his friend duped him. Cain was more than a friend. He was father, mentor, companion. He was wisdom, reason, and compassion. Everything good, everything real, everything that mattered.

  Quillan heard Cain’s laugh in his memory. That old man had found so much to amuse him, even frequently Quillan himself. And Quillan didn’t mind because he knew Cain cared. Oh, Cain. He felt so lost. Cain had been his anchor.

  He’d given Quillan purpose. Caring for Cain had given him joy. But what had he ever given Cain? Stubborn arguments and stiff-necked pride. Surely not the one thing Cain wanted above any other. How could he?

  Surrender his heart to a God who sacrificed His best and His finest? What for? A surge of anger filled him. Then he saw D.C. watching. The boy’s eyes were swollen, his mouth drawn. But Quillan could see no anger there. How? How could D.C. not rage against a God who would allow this?

  Quillan heard the shovels pounding against the stony earth as graves were dug, graves for those who’d paid last night for Cain’s death. Cain wouldn’t have wanted it. He hated violence.

  Quillan pictured the corpses hanging, a grotesque and grisly sight. And it could have been worse. What if Carina had been among them? He thought of the faces they’d passed riding in, some ashamed, some still bearing their animosity, but he’d made his point, bringing her in through the center of town. None would lay a hand on her, now that the bloodlust was passed.

  He dropped his chin to his chest. If only it mattered. If only anything mattered. He would leave. What was there to keep him? At whose tent would he linger for a chat?

  “Quillan?” D.C.’s voice was unnaturally thick, but he struggled to keep it steady.

  “Yeah?” His own sounded false and forced.

  The dog at D.C.’s side whined, a more honest reaction than either he or D.C. allowed themselves.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about being a preacher. I think I could do Daddy proud.”

  Quillan swallowed the tightness in his throat. “You’d do him right proud, D.C.” He could a
lmost see the old man grin.

  “I talked to Reverend Baylor last night. He’s going to see me into seminary.”

  Quillan studied the young face before him. Cain would be downright tickled. He could almost hear the unrestrained “hee-hee” and the slap on the knee. “Don’t ya know.” He fought the sudden sting of tears.

  “I have the funds since, well, the mine’s earning a lot. Daddy talked to a group from back east who wants to finance it, a real operation. He meant to tell you, only things got so crazy.”

  Quillan’s chest squeezed. Why now? Why should it all work out for Cain now that he was gone? What a perverse God.

  “I know how you feel about the mine and all. But Daddy sure was proud to call you partner. I guess his half comes to me, and I was hoping you’d look out for it.”

  Quillan was unprepared for that.

  “I don’t want to let it go. Daddy’s heart was in that hole, and I can’t see clear to selling it. Not yet, anyhow.”

  Cain’s heart wasn’t in the hole. It was in the boy who stood before him. But Quillan couldn’t say that now. D.C. wouldn’t understand. He was grieving his daddy by doing what he thought Cain would want. Quillan felt the trap, heard Mrs. Shepard in his mind. “At the first scratch in the dirt you’ll be one of them, the greedy soul-sellers. Just like your savage father.”

  He closed his eyes. Was there even one time she’d thought something good about him? One good thing she’d said? Even when she prayed, it was to lay out all his faults. “What will I do with this burden? He’s the devil’s own.”

  Quillan shook himself. His personal feelings had nothing to do with D.C.’s request. It was all about Cain, what Cain would want. Quillan knew what Cain would want. “You have the names of these … investors?”

  D.C. pulled a paper from his jacket. “Here’s the one talked to Daddy. He’s the mining engineer. Someone named Alexander Makepeace. Daddy was awful excited.” And now the boy’s voice broke. “He thought he’d finally made it.”

  Quillan clenched his teeth to keep from giving in to angry tears himself. Last night had been enough. Yeah, Cain had made it. For what? To be bashed by thugs and thrown into the creek like so much rubbish. God’s mercy.