Quillan laid down the fork and sat stiffly. “Who didn’t, Mae?”
She shrugged. “The four men in her restaurant were just hirelings. You know how it is. And don’t bother looking. They’re long gone, whisked away before anyone could tie them to one operation or another. Likely all of them together.”
“Why?”
“You’re as innocent as Carina, aren’t you? She set up expectations no one else could meet.”
Mae was right. He was ignorant. He hadn’t learned the first thing about his mine or mining in general, hadn’t wanted to. He’d left it all in Alex Makepeace’s competent hands. Left Carina there, too. It was only natural that what they’d done together would bond them someway. The twisting inside him was almost a physical pain.
Of course Makepeace would crumble under Carina’s insistence. Even against his better judgment. Could either have guessed the repercussions of their solicitude? Quillan pictured the four men insulting his wife, the deft twist of her wrist that sent the scalding soup down the man’s face, that simple twist that had brought the men back to injure her. They might have killed her. What if he had returned to a grave? The food was lead inside him. He pushed the plate away.
Mae took the plate and set it aside. “So now you know all I do. No one saw a face. When Mr. Makepeace started shooting, the assailants ran.”
“Alex Makepeace started shooting?”
“Are you listening to me, Quillan? He fired the shots that sent the men away.” Quillan frowned. Makepeace had gotten there in time to save his wife. Had he held her? Soothed her? Is that why Carina thought it was Alex she snuggled into when Quillan held her? But then, why would she think it was he? Had he been there? Had he sent the thugs running?
Mae hunkered down on the bench across from him. She crossed her arms and leaned forward. “Truth is, you’ve come back none too soon, Quillan. I’ve always thought highly of you, starting as you did with too many disadvantages. But I’ll say this now, and then it’s on your own head. If you’re not intending to stay, don’t go in there at all. Just walk away, and let her heal from you and the baby together.”
Quillan met Mae’s eyes, saw in their violet flash that she meant every word of it. “Just tell me one thing, Mae. Does she love Alex Makepeace?”
Mae pursed her lips and studied the door that separated them from Carina. “I think she could, given the chance.” Mae turned her gaze back to him. “But before God, Quillan, she’s your wife. And if you let her go, you’re more the fool than I ever thought you.”
“I won’t let her go, Mae.”
“Then good luck to you.” Mae shoved up from the table. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
Quillan half smiled. “Thanks for the confidence.”
Mae rested a hand on her hip. “Putting the two of you in a ring, my money would be on Carina.”
“Not this time, Mae. Lay your bet on the underdog.”
She laughed. “This I’ve gotta see.”
Quillan went outside to the woodpile behind Carina’s dining room. Her ax was sharp, and he bet any number of men kept it that way for her. Or maybe it was only Alex Makepeace. Quillan frowned. He had to stop thinking that way. He’d all but abandoned his wife. Why shouldn’t someone else step in to help?
He sank the ax into the log, raised it, and swung with such force the ax cleaved the log and bit deeply into the chopping block. He yanked it free and picked up one of the halves that had flown free with his blow. When he had splintered enough wood, he gathered it into his arms and turned for Carina’s door. The latch was broken, pried out of the wood, and Quillan guessed this was how the intruders had entered.
He opened the door and went inside, carrying the wood down the hall and through the door into Carina’s room. It was warm but not overly. Quietly he set the wood beside the stove and added a stick or two to the coals. Carina stirred, and he turned, but she only slipped back into sleep.
He wished he’d asked the doctor how long it would be before she wakened. Quillan looked around the room, noting the things Carina had added. A cut-glass lamp, a new pitcher and bowl, and books, of course, on a shelf along one wall. He’d known that bookstore would entice her.
He glanced at the crate beside the bed. What was she reading currently? The one that lay there was plain. Carefully, he lifted it and searched the spine for a title. No title. He opened the cover and realized it was a journal. Carina’s?
He looked at her face, flushed slightly with sleep . . . or was it pain? He flipped to the center of the book, just to know if the words were hers. Dio, you are faithful. I know my prayer will be answered. But how long must I wait, loving a man who doesn’t love me in return? Doesn’t love her? Is that what she thought? He closed the book, ashamed to have pried even that much.
And then it occurred to him that she might not be speaking of him at all. What made him think he was the one she loved? Hadn’t she loved Flavio before him? Couldn’t her affections have shifted to yet another? He was tempted to open the book again and find out.
Firmly, he set the diary beside his wife. He would not pry into her private writings, even though reading his mother’s had given him a love and appreciation for her he could have gotten no other way. But that book was given him to read. By Carina. He owed her so much.
He bent and touched his wife’s hair. She sighed, but her eyes didn’t open. He leaned close. Look at me, Carina. Know that I’m here. But he didn’t speak it aloud. If she did look, she might not like what she saw.
Carina woke to Mae’s hand on her forehead. It felt cool and soft, and when she tried to open her eyes, they opened easily, no fuzzy heaviness holding them shut. Her mouth, though, was dry as down. She tried to swallow.
Mae must have anticipated her need. She held a cup of water to her lips. Carina drank. Slowly she became aware of the pain, feeling the bruised areas with even the smallest motions. It was bearable pain though, and she struggled to sit up.
“Easy now. You’ve been medicated for two days.” Mae stuffed pillows behind her back.
Carina sank into them stiffly. Two days of dreams and pain. But she felt sure now she would heal. Of course she would heal. Papa had come to heal her. No, that was the dream as well. It wasn’t Papa who held her. Papa never wore a beard. She knew that much.
The bed sagged as Mae sat beside her. Carina looked into her face and froze. What was wrong? Mae took her hand and held it in silence. Carina’s heart rushed. She wanted to send her away. Whatever it was Mae had to say, Carina didn’t want it spoken. Not now, when she finally felt that the nightmare might end.
“Carina . . .”
“Don’t. Whatever it is . . .”
Mae turned away, but not before Carina saw a tear trickle from her eye. Blood pounded in her ears. There was something she should know, but she couldn’t make herself recall. Something in the dream, then, had been real, as real as the blows that bruised her now. She closed her eyes, shutting Mae out.
But her voice came through anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting?”
Carina wet her lips painfully and opened her eyes. Was she?
“I don’t know what good it would have done.” Mae waved a hand. “But I just would have liked to have known before . . . before you lost it. Carina, I’m so sorry.”
Lost it! She’d been with child and lost it? The thought slammed inside her head, smashing her defenses. Oh, the pain. Quillan’s child, gone. Her baby. Her baby gone. Tears stung her eyes as Mae wrapped her in a thick, fleshy embrace. She was warm and soft, so different from that other embrace, that rocking embrace. Or was that a dream?
What did it matter? Her baby was dead, and she was alone. So terribly alone.
“I’m so sorry, Carina. So sorry.”
Carina let Mae hold her. Their tears mingled. But all she could think was, why? God had brought good from their marriage, even from the shambles they’d made of it. Then He’d taken the good away. Carina sobbed. “Why? Why?”
“I don’t know,
darlin’. I don’t know.”
“I thought . . . I thought with the baby he might . . . I thought he might love me.”
“He loves you, Carina.”
She shook her head so sharply it sent pain to her temple. “No.” Suddenly her sorrow was eclipsed by a choking rage. Her hands formed fists and she pushed Mae away. “And if he were here I would kick him!”
Mae opened her mouth to speak, but Carina had no interest in her defense of Quillan Shepard. She buried her face in the pillows. “Go away. Please go away. I want to be alone.”
The bed creaked and swayed as Mae stood. Carina ought to thank her for her care, her sympathy. But she didn’t want her sympathy— she wanted to scream! When the door clicked shut, she flung herself to her side, grabbed up her diary and pencil, and flipped page after page to the first blank sheet.
Teeth clenched, she held the pencil aloft, then wrote:
What grief in the severing of mother and child. Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. The joining of two lives to make one. The wrenching of one from its resting place. My body is empty. My heart a stone. But in my blood, fire rages. Fire against the men who did this to me. Fire against God. And most of all, fire against Quillan. I wish it could consume him.
Quillan carried the rocker over the precarious ground, careful not to lose his footing and slip. He’d paid an outrageous price for this particular chair because it was similar to the one Carina had lost on the road, the one he’d dumped over the cliff on her wagon. Arms straining, he made it to her stoop and set the chair down. Sam scrambled up and circled him impatiently.
Quillan nudged him aside with his knee. “Don’t get your hopes up.” He used one of the extra keys he’d acquired from the blacksmith and unlocked Carina’s door. He glanced inside, saw Carina lying still on the bed, her eyes closed.
He lifted the rocker and carried it inside. There was room for it in the front corner, and he set it there softly so as not to awaken his wife. Sam, however, had other ideas. He frisked about the bed, then put both paws up and licked Carina’s hand.
“Sam,” Quillan called softly.
But Carina startled, rolled, and sat up. Sam licked her face, but she didn’t look at the dog. Her hair was a tousled mass of dark, shining ripples. The bruise on her temple showed blue against her olive skin as she caught her hair back with one delicate hand. But it was her eyes Quillan couldn’t avoid. In their dark, stormy depths, he saw something raw and furious . . . and wounded. Their gaze flicked to the chair, then back to him.
She raised her chin. “I don’t want it.”
He stood for a full breath, unsure of how to answer. She had a right to her anger, a right to blame him, to strike out. God knew he blamed himself. But that wasn’t the way. Quillan slacked a hip and met her gaze. “Auction it off. You’ll get a good price.”
Sam slipped down from the bed and pattered over to stand, tail wagging, before him. Quillan motioned him away with one hand. “Lie down.” The dog reluctantly obeyed, and Quillan was glad for the distraction when Carina’s gaze followed the dog as he circled, then lay in front of the door. When she turned back, he saw she was shaking with pain, weakness, or just plain fury.
He took a step toward the bed. “Carina . . .”
“Do you think I want your gifts? Eggs and chickens. A rocking chair. Do you think they matter?”
He had hoped they did. That’s why he’d brought a wagonload of supplies from the Italian market. And paid an exorbitant price for the rocker.
“So.” She waved a hand. “You’ve brought your token. Now you can leave.”
He saw that the movement of her arm hurt her. “I’m not leaving.”
“Beh!” She made a motion with her hand to her mouth that he hadn’t seen before, but its message was clear. She didn’t believe and she didn’t care. She sank into the pillows and glared.
Quillan straightened. “I’m not leaving Crystal, Carina. I’ll be at the livery if you need me.”
“Un gross’uomo.” She spoke it darkly.
The big man. No, he was not the big man, but he was trying. She must see that he was trying.
Carina glared at Quillan standing there with a hint of his pirate’s smile. If it didn’t hurt so much to move, she would throw something. But she didn’t have to. He went out the door with his dog at his heels. Again he showed her his back. She sat and seethed.
He thought he could bring her a chair and change everything? Was it her mamma’s chair that he’d shattered on the road? It was similar. Of course. He had probably searched every store in town for it. Maybe even carried it from someplace farther.
Auction it off? She would give it away! To Mae. No, Mae wouldn’t fit between the curved arms. To Èmie, then. Yes. It would be a wedding gift. To one whose marriage was not a sham.
Carina sank into the pillows. She reached for her journal and pen. We’ ll see how long the gross’uomo stays. Will it be even one day? He thinks to win me with things. Does he know the only thing that mattered is gone? She pressed a hand to her belly, flat and empty, and cried.
TWENTY
I know I am wrong to harbor such thoughts, but I cannot stop them. They rise up like a well inside me and I am drowning.
—Carina
CARINA HAD SCARCELY KNOCKED when Èmie pulled open her door. “Carina! You shouldn’t be up. Robert says healing takes longer if you force it.”
“I have a present for your wedding.”
“What?” Èmie caught her arm. “You should be in bed. Look at you, pale and—oh, Carina.” Èmie closed her into her arms and Carina sagged against her.
Èmie was right. She shouldn’t have gotten up. She felt weak and the pain was much worse than she first thought. Not just the bruising, but deep within her, as though her insides were bruised as well. Perhaps they were. But she pulled back and waved at the rocking chair Joe Turner had hauled for her in his carryall. He jumped down and lifted it to the ground.
Èmie caught her hands together. “Oh. It’s beautiful.”
“You’ll have to fight Robert for it.”
Èmie was shaking her head, eyes still pinned to the rocker. “Oh, Carina, I’ve never had anything so fine.”
“Eh, you have a home to make.” She fought off a wave of dizziness. The corset she’d donned to fit into her dress was pressing so tightly over her bruised and swollen flesh, she thought she might faint. But she couldn’t stand to have the chair in her room one minute longer. Not when it reminded her so of Mamma. And worse, when she thought how she might have rocked her own baby in it.
Joe Turner carried the rocker to the door. “Where do you want it, Mrs. Simms?”
Èmie stepped back. “Right in the middle of the floor. I want it to be the first thing anyone sees. Oh, Carina, it’s too much. Wait till Father Antoine sees it! Oh, we’ll all have a sit.”
Carina forced a smile. “Try it now.” And when Èmie went inside to sit in the rocker, Carina gripped the doorframe and held herself erect.
Joe Turner didn’t miss it. “Mrs. Shepard.” He took her elbow and supported her. “Come, now. Listen to Èmie. Don’t force it.”
She nodded. The last thing she wanted was a fainting scene. She had acted on impulse, anger motivating her up from the bed and through the washing and dressing and finding Joe Turner. Now she leaned on his arm and let him turn her toward the carryall.
“Thank you, Joe. I’ll take her now.” Quillan stood, jaw set, eyes stern, as he took Carina’s other arm.
Where had he come from? What was he doing, standing there like an avenging spirit, hair loose to his shoulders, stance stubborn and protective? Carina seethed, but she couldn’t refuse him with Èmie and Joe Turner looking on. She felt his strength, his muscles hardened from years of strong labor.
Joe Turner released her. “Use my buggy.”
No! She didn’t want to ride next to Quillan. How she wished she could shake him off and stalk away!
“That won’t be necessary.” With a single swift motion, he picked her up l
ike a baby.
Carina bit her lip against the pain and fury. He would carry her in his arms for all to see? The humiliation! But her body was rebellious. It sank with relief into his chest. He didn’t speak as he carried her. Did he know she’d given Èmie his rocker? It had already been inside, but he might have seen. A sharp satisfaction filled her.
She closed her eyes. It was wrong to feel such vengeful spite. She knew in her spirit what was right, but she couldn’t do it. Her loss was too great, and Quillan . . . With her face burrowed into his neck, she felt a vague stirring. Something from before, the rocking . . . No, those arms had been tender, not hard, and the chin bearded.
It must have been Alex. Where was he? She hadn’t seen him once since . . . since he held her, broken and bleeding. Carina fought tears of fury and frustration. Who was Quillan to walk in now and demand his place? What did he care? She was his responsibility? Oh!
“Don’t stiffen up. Relax.” It was the impersonal, imperial tone he’d used when teaching her to shoot. The big man!
“Relax!” She struggled in his arms. “When you’re humiliating me for all Crystal to see?”
“Would you rather collapse in the street? Dr. Felden’s appalled that you’re out of bed.”
“I’m perfectly able to walk.”
Quillan turned his face to hers, and Carina felt the intensity of his closeness. She wanted to look away, but as always, he held her bound by some magnetism she couldn’t fight. His face softened, and for a horrible moment, she thought he would kiss her.
Then he started walking again. “He’s concerned for your kidneys. The blows there may have caused damage you don’t realize. He’s ordered bed rest.”
“Bed rest!” Carina fought the feelings of helplessness. “And who will run my restaurant? You?”
There it was, his rogue’s smile. Oh! She hit his chest with her fist. He kept walking, not even deigning to answer. He was impossible! “Omacio.”
“I may be a cad, Carina, but you’re stuck with me.”
Sweet Boundless Page 26
