With her fingers pressed to the glass, she looked until she’d seen it all. One day she would come back to this store and buy the parasol. One day when she had earned enough. The wind whipped her hair. It had a bite to it. And it was bringing clouds.
She sighed and left the window behind. She met Quillan at the wagon, still loading her goods. “I need eggs. Il signore Lanza didn’t have any.” She spoke over the wind, holding the fur collar tight to her throat.
“That’ll be tough.”
“Why?”
“They’re hard to transport, not always available. If he didn’t have them, it’s likely no one else does.”
“But I have to have them. The pasta requires it.”
Quillan paused. “I just brought you some.”
“It won’t be enough.”
Quillan leaned on the wagon. “How much is enough?”
“Dozens.” She waved her arm.
His eyes narrowed; then he shook his head. “I can’t do anything about that today, Carina. We have to start up. I don’t like the feel of this wind.” He turned back to the wagon. “Besides you’ve already cost me enough.”
She bit back the retort. Once she had business, she would pay for everything she needed herself. Until then she would have to borrow.
They started up the pass. This time Carina kept the shawl tied over her mouth against the wind and didn’t read aloud. She could have read silently, but that seemed unkind to Quillan. She kept her chilled hands deep in the pockets of her coat and was grateful for its warmth. Her canvas jacket would not have been enough.
Quillan reached down and pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from under his feet. “Here.”
Carina pulled a hand from its nest and took the package, wonderingly. “What is this?”
He didn’t answer, so she tore the paper off a pair of caramel-colored kidskin gloves with a tiny pearl button closure on the side of each. Amazed, she lifted the gloves and held them to her cheeks. They were soft and supple but would be warm as well. Tears stung her eyes as she turned to him.
He scowled. “I could hardly let you freeze. We don’t know what we’re going into.”
“You’re kind to me.”
He looked away with an expelled breath. “I know my responsibility.”
He made it sound like the cross he must bear. She knew he felt that way. But why? The smiles and stares proved she was attractive; she’d always been sought after. Why did he disdain her?
She tugged the gloves onto her hands. They were a good fit and every bit as soft as they’d appeared. Her fingers curled with ease, then stretched out, and she admired the look of her hands in the brown leather. At Quillan’s smirk, she brought her hands to her lap. “Thank you.”
He said nothing, and they rode in silence. The wind would have made conversation difficult anyway. Nestled against her, Sam whined, whistling softly through his nose it seemed. Carina put an arm around him, and they warmed each other. Quillan drove with grim resolution up the winding pass.
“Why is it so cold?” she called at last.
“At this elevation, September means winter.”
She eyed the dark gray sky they climbed toward and remembered the flood that had washed all of Placer and part of Crystal away. Could this sky hold something as dangerous as that? The river was low. There was no chance of flood. But the clouds looked ominous.
Quillan, too, seemed tense, and the dog shivered beside her. Every time they stopped to let the horses blow, Quillan eyed the sky and chafed. She guessed he pushed the horses harder than he normally would, though their load was full. She didn’t complain about the biscuit and jerky for supper. She didn’t want to stop and make a fire. She wanted to get home.
The horses strained as the grade steepened. The wind beat against them, howling now through the peaks and valleys. Any brief windbreak was a godsend, but it made the next blast that much harder to take. Dusk descended and the wind turned wet. Carina opened her eyes to flakes swirling like dervishes before her face. One moment it was dry; the next, they were engulfed.
Quillan barked something, but she didn’t hear what. He reached over and shook her arm, then pointed to the wagon bed, and she heard the word blanket. She turned, worked a corner of the tarp loose, then lost hold of it, and it flapped wildly. She dug for the blanket, pulled it free, and stuffed it under her thigh, then fought the tarp back into place.
Shaking out the blanket, she handed one side over to Quillan, but he shook his head. His concentration was on the team. She pulled the blanket around herself and Sam. The dog licked her cheek, and she could have cried for the simple gesture of reassurance and affection.
She huddled under the blanket, fighting for breath, and prayed. Signore, per piacere, please help us now. Calm the storm and bring us through. The snow thickened, a white barrage that dazed her senses and masked the way ahead. Quillan reined in suddenly, and Carina saw the edge of road they’d almost headed off.
He yanked the horses to the right as her heart pounded her chest. This was pazzo! How could they continue? Why didn’t he stop? “Can’t we stop? Can’t we wait?” Her words were swallowed by the storm.
He drove the team on until again he yanked them to a stop. Before she could speak, he jumped down and went to the front. There he grabbed hold of the harness and began leading the team on foot. Carina gripped Sam to her side as the wagon lurched forward. She had to trust that Quillan knew what he was doing.
Soon there was nothing but the white cloud around her—no mountain, no road, no world but the swirling, dizzying white. Sam barked, and it jarred her from her daze, but she couldn’t make out even the backs of the horses before her. Quillan was lost somewhere beyond the wall of white.
She trembled with more than cold. Sam barked again, and then again. The wagon stopped moving. The dog jumped to all fours and barked steadily. Quillan appeared at her side, and Carina flung herself into his arms.
He pulled her down from the box, his eyebrows and lashes and whiskers crusted with snow, the hair hanging beneath the broad-brimmed hat, strings of ice. “Get underneath the wagon.”
She nodded and climbed under the wooden wagon bed. Sam stood at its side, barking. Carina crouched beneath the blanket while Quillan draped a tarp down from the wagon on either side like a tent. Darkness engulfed her and both the wind and the snow lessened inside her space, though it still howled in from the far side and the back.
Sam came rushing in and circled frantically, then rushed back out. She could see Quillan’s legs as he worked his way around the far side of the wagon to the front. She guessed he was doing something with the horses. Could they withstand the blizzard? What if they died?
Then it came to her with a shock that they could all die. She trembled. She had never imagined freezing to death or being buried alive in snow. Now she could imagine it. Sam dove under once again, licked her face, and ran back out, barking. A moment later, Quillan crawled under with two more blankets, and Sam at his heels.
He sat down with his back to the front axle. “Come over here.”
She crawled between him and the side of the front wheel.
He pulled a blanket around her. “We’ll wait it out.”
“Will it stop?” It seemed it might storm forever and there would be no end.
“Sooner or later. No sense driving off a cliff in the meantime.”
Carina swallowed the fear in her throat and wanted him to hold her. He didn’t. And she wouldn’t ask. A gust sent snow swirling underneath the wagon, and she pulled the blanket tight. Soon it would stop. Per piacere! But it didn’t.
The cold increased. Her ears burned with the howling of the wind and the cold air. Her nose was a point of pain, her fingers in the gloves, icicles. She had ceased to feel her toes. Her teeth chattered, and at last Quillan raised an arm and drew her to his side. She sank into his strength. Dear God, how she needed him. She pressed her face into the hollow of his neck and fought the tears.
He cupped his hand over her head and held her
there. “It’ll be okay.”
She wanted to believe it, wanted to know everything would be okay. But nothing had been. Nothing had gone right since she’d come to Crystal. No, that wasn’t true. There had been trouble enough, but God had brought good from it. He was in control now as well. She had to believe that.
She ordered her heart to stop pounding with panic, her breath to come slowly. She closed her eyes against Quillan’s neck. He would keep her safe. He always had. Hadn’t he brought her out of the darkness of the shaft? Hadn’t God used him before to save her from the vigilantes? They would be safe.
The slap was no more than a dim burn on her cheek, the shaking a mere inconvenience. “Blast it, Carina! Wake up!”
She was completely warm, so peaceful. Why would she wake up? And then his mouth was on hers, hard and fierce, and her heart leaped to life. She raised her hands and sank them into his hair, and he kept kissing her until she opened her eyes with a cry. He pulled away, breathing hard and bearing down on her with his eyes.
She dropped her hands and clasped them together at her throat. Why now did he kiss her? Were they dead, or was she dreaming?
“You have to stay awake.” His words and face were fierce, as fierce as his kiss.
She shot her gaze to the side. It was dark, but there was the glow of a lantern at the corner of their shelter. It must have been recently lit because there was only a faint smell of it. Beyond the lantern, a white wall surrounded the wheels. It was quiet, so quiet.
Quillan turned her face back to him. “I’m going out now, and you have to stay awake.”
How could he go out? There was no out. There was only the wall.
He shook her. “Do you understand me, Carina? You can’t sleep.”
She swallowed thickly and nodded. He looked another long moment, his eyes charcoal in the glow; then he released her and headed for the side. She watched as he hung on to the undergirding with his hands and kicked his way out from under the wagon. Sam whined at his head.
Carina struggled upright as Quillan forced himself through the wall, hollowing out a space as he went. How long had they huddled there through the storm? How deep was the snow? Quillan kept working, battling it back, and suddenly she heard the wind again, not howling now, but softer. He must have broken through.
He pushed to his feet and stood. All she could see were his legs as he kept expanding the space. The wagon over her head sagged, and she realized he’d climbed into the bed. She felt him moving around, then the sudden swing as he jumped down. A pile of wood landed at his feet and he crouched at the side of the wagon and began shaping it for a fire. Her spirit jumped at the thought.
When he had the wood blazing, she crawled toward it, the motion painful but necessary. The fire drew her by some primal need. She stretched out her fingers, crying out when they thawed enough to feel the warmth. It was not bliss. It was sharp, unremitting pain.
Quillan crouched at the fireside, eyeing her, then drew her out into the snowy hollow, a circular wall some four feet high. She looked up into a dark, milky sky. Quillan pulled her to her feet, pressed her shoulders to the wagon side, and glared. “Don’t you know better than to go to sleep in a blizzard?”
He was so close she couldn’t answer. Then his mouth again claimed hers, the whiskered skin rough and scratching, the lips demanding. Didn’t he know she would give whatever he asked? He didn’t have to take what was his by right. Again her heart beat a sharp staccato. But he pushed away and stalked to the other side of the fire, the flames illuminating his back.
He wanted her. It was in his kiss. There was a need in him for her. That wasn’t so much. God had made man to want woman. Quillan was human. But maybe . . . if he wanted her, he could one day love her. Ah, Signore, that is my prayer.
Hands clenched at his sides, Quillan fought the desire burning inside him. The fact that Carina was his wife and he had every right under heaven to kiss her did nothing to excuse it in his mind. It was his intention to release her from that bond, not drive it deeper. He forced the heat inside him to subside, closed his eyes, and gained control.
He turned and looked at her across the fire, her hair glowing like a raven’s wing, rippling down where it escaped from the shawl. She stood where he’d left her, probably afraid to move, probably wondering what he’d do next. Nothing. I won’t do anything. Anything I do will only make it worse for both of us. But he didn’t voice his thoughts.
He held his gloved hands to the fire. In a small while he’d add another log. He had enough wood to get them through the night, maybe part of another day. But they wouldn’t be there that long. As soon as he had light to work with, he’d start clearing a way. They were drifted in, but not all the road would be so deep. He could dig through the drifts.
He released a slow breath. “If you stay by the fire, you can get some rest.”
“I thought you said not to sleep.” Her voice was small, uncertain, not completely recovered from his actions, he guessed.
“Wrap up warmly and stay close. It’s all right to doze. I’ll wake you periodically.”
“By slapping me?” Her chin rose perceptibly.
Or kissing her? She didn’t voice it, but the question was in her eyes.
“A shake should do.”
She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and sat down. “Can you get to my book?”
He eyed the box with a foot of snow in it and the leg space filled in. “If I dig.”
“You dig, and I’ll read.” She reached under the wagon and took out the lantern. A gust of wind caught her hair and tossed it as she hung the lantern on the wagon’s side.
Well, it would give him something to do. Quillan reached into the wagon bed for the shovel he kept against the side. With it he shoveled the snow down to her carpetbag, then hauled it free and shook it off. Carina took the book from inside, then stuffed the carpetbag under the wagon. She settled down inside the blanket and opened the book.
Quillan took a place near her and the fire. It wasn’t warm inside the hollow he’d dug, but some of the edge was off the cold. They would survive the night like that. He hunkered down and listened as she read. Without seeing the words or taking it at a pace he could imprint on his mind, he couldn’t get it all by memory. So for once he just listened.
He tried to imagine George Eliot a woman. It could be. It was possible a woman wrote under a man’s name. Many authors chose a nom de plume that suited their purpose. But how did Carina guess it? What were the phrases and insights that one woman recognized in another?
As Carina read he watched her, the firelight playing on her face, breaking it into softly defined planes and angles. She was beautiful. Breathtaking, really. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, to pull it free of the shawl and bury his hands in it. He wanted to taste her again.
Would she resist? Quillan knew she wouldn’t. The resistance was his. He closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him. The physical battle with the elements had tired him, and now his muscles let him know. He leaned against the edge of the wheel and eased the strain from his back. He stretched his legs and felt the stiffened joints loosen.
Her voice went on, her English clear but with just a hint of foreignness, more inflection than pronunciation. He liked the sound. It soothed him. The story took a twist, and Carina was in it, coming to him, arms outstretched. He caught her hands and brought them to his chest, sinking into her eyes, so dark, so richly lashed. Her mouth was soft and waiting.
But she shook his arm and kept shaking it. He opened his eyes to her face, just as he’d imagined it. He caught it between his hands. She was his wife. Desire hit him like a kick in the belly, but so did reality. The sky had lightened, and she was waking him. He looked aside to gauge the time, then released her face and pushed himself up.
It was silly to ask if he’d slept. And it didn’t matter if she had as well. Day was dawning, and they’d survived. The fire was little more than embers, but there was warmth there still. He reached a hand to it. “I’d
kill for coffee.”
“I have beans but no grinder.”
“No pot either. I wasn’t planning on spending the night.”
She let go his sleeve. “I’d have let you sleep longer, but you thought it was important to be wakened.”
He forked fingers into his hair and groaned. “I didn’t intend to sleep myself.”
She shrugged. “Your body had other ideas.”
That was an understatement, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead he let his body know it was time to stand. The air was still, but with the coming of day the wind would probably return. The sooner they were making progress, the better. He looked around and took stock of their position. Almost to the summit.
This would be the worst of the snow. But more perilous than the drifts would be the slippery slope down. “Can you see to the horses while I make some preparations?”
She nodded. He had covered each pair with a spare canvas tarp that had kept the worst of the snow off them and held their combined warmth together. He watched her tug the tarp from his wheelers; then he started his own work. He dug down to the bottom of the wagon bed, rearranging Carina’s goods until he found the square-linked chain and pulled it out.
Carina gave the horses oats from feed bags while he draped the chain within easy reach of his seat and began shoveling the wagon out. He worked up a sweat, clearing the wheels of drifted snow and cutting a path ahead. When he made it around the bend that had formed a windbreak, the road was almost blown clear, leaving only the treacherous ice.
If he led them by hand, he could get the team up the last stretch. Then it was level across the summit for a half mile before starting down. That’s where the snow would be even and deep. He returned to the wagon, and Carina met him with a chunk of pungent cheese and a handful of olives. He half grinned. “What, no hardtack?”
With a look that showed what she thought of his hardtack, she broke the ice from the surface of the water barrel and dipped in the cup. Then she held it out to him. He drank gratefully, thirsty from his labor and warmed. The water was icy cold as it went down. Better go easy, he told himself. They were a long way from home, and he didn’t need to lower his body temperature.
Sweet Boundless Page 7
