Sweet Boundless

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Alex sighed. He wouldn’t have to find out now. Quillan Shepard loved his wife. It was in the fierceness of his eyes, the tension of his jaw. And Quillan Shepard was not a man Alex cared to thwart. Not when rectitude lay with Quillan. God had intervened.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Hope is a lighthouse on a rocky shore luring me in through treacherous waters, promising safety.

  —Carina

  THE ROOM WAS EMPTY when Carina woke from a deeply restful sleep. Had Quillan somehow charmed her with his soft injunction and the touch of his hand on her head? She’d dreamt again of the soothing arms, the rocking of that strong and gentle embrace. It had to have been real for it to remain so firmly in her mind. Who had held her? Alex Makepeace?

  She knew he was the one to gather her up when the attackers fled. And first she had been so sure it was his arms, his beard on her forehead, his chest that rocked her. But he hadn’t come even once since then to see her. Because Quillan came home? Of course. Alex wouldn’t come if Quillan were there.

  Yet it didn’t feel right. Something didn’t fit in that picture. She hadn’t actually seen who held her, only sensed a tenderness, a love that she could only ascribe to Alex Makepeace. He’d never admitted such, but she knew it. Why now did the thought leave her feeling bleak?

  Because she wished it was Quillan who had held her? His arms that had brought her such comfort in the darkest point of her sorrow? His mourning joining hers? Looking about the silent room, she felt his absence even as she felt the emptiness of her womb.

  Was he gone? Would she learn today or tomorrow that he had slipped away, left again for someplace he found more tenable than her home? Carina looked at the empty space where the rocking chair had stood so briefly. She wished now she’d kept it. She would have crawled aboard and rocked, recalling the strong chest, the embracing arms. Whose? Did Mae know? Could she ask?

  As though summoned by the thought, Mae tapped the door and came in. “Ah, you’re awake. Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.” Then a pang of sorrow swept her. Where did her baby sleep? In heaven? With the angels? With Rose’s lost child?

  Mae bent and stoked the coals in her stove, then added wood that lay in piles of kindling along the wall. Someone had been busy. Quillan?

  “Mae.” Carina pushed herself up farther in spite of the dull ache in her back. She wanted to ask but was afraid of the answer.

  “If it’s the restaurant you’re worried about, don’t. Between Èmie, Lucia, me, and the twins, we’re opening the doors tonight.”

  Carina stared. “But, Mae . . .”

  “We all like to feel indispensable. But the truth is, we’re mostly not.”

  Carina shook her head. “What have you found to serve?” They’d been scrambling to put together anything remotely like the meals she’d started with.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Èmie’s figured out the menu. Some of the recipes you’ve shown her before.”

  “But that would take ingredients we don’t have. And . . . you can do it without me?”

  “I’m not laying claim to anything. It’s Quillan’s doing.”

  “Quillan!” Carina bolted up and winced.

  “He brought a wagonload of things that look and smell like what you’re used to.”

  Carina sank back with a huff. So. More gifts to bribe her. At least he had the good sense not to tell her.

  “And he’s got us all doing our parts. He’s hard to ignore.”

  Bene. Let him try to run her business for just one night. He’d see. He’d . . . but what if he did it? Oh! The man was impossible! She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Now, there’s a look.”

  Carina didn’t care how petulant her face was. She was not about to let Quillan take charge of her or her restaurant.

  “You may as well face it, Carina. Quillan’s here to stay.”

  “Hah. Where is he now?”

  “On his way to the Rose Legacy with Mr. Makepeace.”

  Carina’s eyes darted to the window. To the cave? With Alex? She bit her lip. Signore, did I do right? What if it was more than he could stand? It had hurt her to see the scenes. How would it be if it were her own papa? She pressed a hand to her breast. Be with him, Signore. Make him strong . . . and wise . . . and compassionate. Help him understand.

  Tears stung her eyes as she prayed. Oh, Dio, she loved him. Furious as she was, she loved him!

  Quillan reined in outside the Rose Legacy and dismounted as Alex Makepeace did the same. The air was crisp with the smell of snow. The foundation was hidden under snow already. But the mouth of the Rose Legacy yawned before him. As Quillan stood, a single snowflake touched his cheek and melted like a tear.

  He looked up to the sky. It was partly clear, but tiny flakes darted about like fireflies. A snow shower, probably. Not a blizzard. He turned to Alex Makepeace. “We’ll tether the horses inside.”

  Makepeace nodded. When the animals were secure, he took the thick coil of rope and attached it to the top of the shaft, using the spikes Quillan had driven into the timber to rescue Carina. Quillan remembered the exultation he’d felt when he realized she was alive. Had God directed him into that shaft? Did He direct him now?

  “There’s a subterranean well directly beneath. The rope falls just to the right of it. When you land, watch your footing.”

  Quillan nodded.

  “Here.” Makepeace gave him a tin candle holder and three candles.

  Quillan stashed them in the deep pockets of his buckskin coat. Then he took the rope and let himself down over the side of the shaft. He remembered how fatigued his muscles had been after fighting the flood, every movement a strain. Now his arms were strong.

  He remembered the dream. Carrying Carina, climbing the shaft that wouldn’t end, his arms throbbing, cramping and shaking, and all the while Mrs. Shepard laughing. “You’ ll never be anything but a savage like your father.” And the laugh. The diabolical laugh.

  Her laugh had lost its power to horrify him. He knew now the illness from which it sprang. So why did he feel such a sense of foreboding letting himself down the rope into the darkness of his father’s mine? No, not his mine—this cave, this natural orifice Wolf had opened up.

  Down, down, Quillan descended hand over hand until his feet struck bottom. He landed, signaled with the rope, and stared into total darkness. A chill settled in his spine. This was hell, this total void, this depravation of senses, as terrifying a hell, as everlasting flames. He felt the rope jump as Alex Makepeace started down it.

  Quillan stepped away carefully to the right. He dug into his pocket, found the candle holder, and jammed a candle into the socket. Holding both the candle and the matchbox in his left hand, he struck a match and lit the wick. The relief from that little glow was enormous.

  Makepeace dropped beside him and lit his own candle while Quillan raised his light and circled slowly. Alex Makepeace held his up as well, motioning toward the ceiling. He spoke softly. “Bats. If we’re careful we won’t disturb them.” He lowered the candle. “Floor’s slippery as well.”

  Quillan nodded. He had never been deep inside the earth before. Not even into the New Boundless more than the span of the short drift that Cain had driven. He felt the immensity of the stone around him like a giant tomb. He studied the size and shape of the spikes on floor and ceiling, some connecting like pillars.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Alex Makepeace’s voice held both awe and appreciation.

  “It is.”

  “The chamber’s this way.” Alex swung his arm and started across the cavern floor. “First time we came down, the bats showed us which direction to go.”

  We. Makepeace and Carina in this dark place together. Quillan tightened his jaw. A low moan started and wailed over them. Stopped dead and clutching his candle firmly, Quillan shuddered.

  “It’s the wind through an orifice in the painted chamber.”

  But it wasn’t. Quillan’s feet felt frozen to the floor. It was a sound that had haunted his
dreams from his earliest years. He knew it, but how? He forced one foot to lift and then the next, thankful for the dimness that kept his terror from being apparent to Alex Makepeace.

  “Mrs. Shepard wasn’t wild about it either.”

  Quillan stared ahead as they walked. Carina had gone this way, seen what he would see, felt what he felt now.

  “Probably nerves. I shouldn’t have left her alone there. She wanted to study the pictures, so I went exploring.” Makepeace tried to seem casual, but to Quillan he sounded overly familiar with his wife. He shouldn’t have left her alone? He shouldn’t have been there at all.

  “How many times did you come?”

  “Twice.” Alex ducked between two spikes that nearly met and continued on. “Found the chamber the first time when the bats made their exit. Mrs. Shepard did not enjoy the bats.”

  Quillan heard the humor in his voice and seethed. What right had this man to be alone with Carina in a treacherous place? Was she frightened? Had he soothed her? Quillan remembered her reaction to the rattlesnake. Had she clung to Makepeace when the bats startled her?

  The cavern narrowed and lowered into a passage. Quillan followed, hoping Alex Makepeace wasn’t leading him down some dark tunnel where he’d lose him and have Carina for himself. Where were these thoughts coming from? Some animal fear conjured by the darkness, the sense of being swallowed alive?

  Makepeace stopped in front of him. “It’s just ahead here. Quillan . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you see for yourself.” He stepped aside.

  Quillan felt a terrible reluctance. His heart thundered so, he was sure Makepeace could hear it. In spite of everything in him wanting to run, Quillan stepped forward into the chamber. It was small and circular. And the walls were a mural. Wolf?

  “I’ll . . . be out . . .” Makepeace waved toward the main chamber.

  Quillan hardly heard him. The moan had started again, but this time it was shrill, the howl of a wolf. His whole being shook. No wonder people thought they heard howling on the mountain at night. Slowly he raised his candle and studied the pictures on the wall. They followed one after the other from the right of the opening to the left.

  “If you want to know Wolf, he’s there.” Quillan pictured Carina standing there in his place, seeing what he saw. He neared the wall, studied the first picture, the horror of the massacre. He saw the child Wolf crouched behind the bush watching the atrocities to his family. Quillan forced himself on to the next image and slowly made his way around the room. Each scene took fresh courage to look, to learn. This was his father!

  There was emotion in each scene, though the pictures were simple. Each one spoke its own story, but one thing was constant through them all. Why was Wolf so alone?

  The symbolism of the pale wolf was not lost on him. It was as though the man and wolf were bound together, somehow vying like two selves in one. Quillan came to the picture of Rose. There was no clear definition of features, but he saw her willowy form, her dark hair. He wanted more, wanted to see her clearly. To purge the nightmare images Leona Shepard had given him.

  Breath thick in his chest, he viewed the last picture. Wolf with a newborn child raised over his head. Quillan’s heart hammered. He’d seen it before. But that was impossible. It was déjà vu. A trick of the imagination. But the longer he looked, the more he knew it. How?

  He’d been only a baby when the Shepards took him from Placerville. He knew they’d never gone back, surely had never gone into this cave. No one knew of it except Wolf, and now Carina and Alex Makepeace. It didn’t make sense. But this picture was in Quillan’s memory as surely as the books he’d committed there . . . with very little effort.

  He knew his memory was superior to most. He’d been amazed as a boy that everyone couldn’t recall as he could. But this . . . He stared at the wall. Was it possible? Had Wolf brought him into the cave? Had his eyes truly taken in this scene of father-son surrender? And how did he know that was what the picture meant?

  Quillan’s chest heaved as he strove to keep his eyes on the picture. He sank to his knees. He felt himself torn, even as his father must have been, knowing the animal was inside him, the pale wolf that howled its protest when the man gave his son to God. That howled every time the baby cried. That couldn’t stop the howling born of torment and torture and fear.

  The howling became shrill, a cold wind filling the chamber, and Quillan’s candle flickered out. He knew a moment of sheer terror of the dark. Jesus. He spoke it aloud. “Jesus.” He didn’t relight his candle, but the darkness lessened. In the faint glow from somewhere above him, he saw the picture of Wolf and his son.

  Wolf had made the choice. In the end they were separate, the wolf outside the man. Quillan knew this. It was the man who had joined with Rose, and the man who had died with her. And the man had surrendered to God. He wasn’t the savage Mrs. Shepard had made him, and Quillan wasn’t damned before he started.

  Quillan closed his eyes, breath coming hard and swift. Lord God, I give you my soul. Wholeheartedly now, and not because grief had brought him to his knees, Quillan surrendered himself. Drenched in sweat, Quillan straightened on his knees, his breath easing. Slowly he reached into his pocket, found the matches, and relit the candle. The chamber sprang to life, a monument to his father.

  Quillan laughed. He threw back his head and laughed. Stretching his arms wide and upward, he filled the chamber with his laughter. Then he stood, circled the walls once again with his eyes, and walked out of the chamber. He followed the corridor to the main cavern. Alex Makepeace stood just inside. He must have heard the laughter. It must have rung echoing into the cavern.

  Quillan met his puzzled gaze. “We’d better go. Before the snow gets serious.” He led the way across the cavern to the rope and handed Alex Makepeace the end. “Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”

  Without speaking, Alex Makepeace extinguished his light and climbed. Quillan stood alone in the dim of his single candle swallowed by the space of the cavern, feeling the stillness of the air. As he reached for the rope he heard a sound, a soft wail that had no power to terrify anymore. He stood, letting it wash over him until it faded into silence, then clutched the rope and climbed.

  Carina sighed. Èmie had twice come in to ask about a recipe and each time assured her that they were managing just fine, but it chafed to leave the kitchen entirely to her friend. Especially when she could smell the sausage and parmigiano Quillan had brought. It irked her to wonder so intensely what else the pantry held. But the weakness resulting from yesterday’s exertion kept her in bed.

  She thought again about Quillan at the Rose Legacy. With the day wearing on and snow fluttering past the window, she couldn’t help but worry. Even more than the outer circumstances, she worried about the impact of what Quillan would see. Dio, soften his heart. Let him see past the horror to the soul of his father.

  She closed her eyes and pictured the cave mural. Oh, the images would be hard to forget. But she prayed Quillan would be able to do so if it was too much for him to bear. Would he come to her? Or would he run away again? It was the chance she took when she told him of the cave. But she didn’t regret it.

  If he left her now, she would go home. She didn’t care that, being married to Quillan, she could never marry another and carry a child inside her. No, she didn’t care. It hurt too much to lose them. She dozed, willing the pain to subside, the bruising outside and in. God was good, and He would bring good from it all. She clung to that.

  She thought she smelled the snow, felt the cold breath of winter on her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open to find Quillan standing over her. She looked into his face, chapped with cold, yet warmer than she’d seen it before. There was no haunting, as she’d feared. Intensity, yes, but no despair. And his eyes were not closed to her with his rascal’s indifference. They were searching, vulnerable, real.

  She eased up onto her elbows. “You saw the cave? The paintings?”

  “I saw it.”

  Oh yes, the
images were in his mind even as they were in hers. They had moved him, changed him. “Your papa had a lonely life.”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t have to.” Now it was her voice that softened to a mere breath.

  He worked his thumb across his index finger, and she could see that his hands were red with chap or rope burns. “I haven’t done so well.”

  A smile touched her lips. “Yes, you have.”

  He stood silent a long moment, then stooped down beside the bed and took her hand from the coverlet. His were cold and rough as they cupped hers between them. “I’m sorry, Carina. For leaving you and . . .” His throat worked painfully. “For the baby.”

  She felt the pain wash over her. Tears sprang to her eyes. “It was . . .” She raised one shoulder. “God’s will.” She had to believe that, even though it hurt.

  Something fierce filled his eyes, and she thought he would argue, but then he looked down at her fingers nestled inside his. “Can you forgive me?” His voice was soft as dust, yet firm, reaching inside her, demanding response.

  Carina’s heart quickened. Did she forgive him? Knowing what she knew of Wolf’s pain, of Rose’s deep sorrow, how could she not forgive their son, for whom each had grieved in their own way? Wolf in his cave; Rose in her journal and her failing mind. Quillan himself had suffered through no fault of his own. She saw it now in the strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Forgive? She had learned to forgive. She answered softly, “Yes. I forgive you.”

  It was as though years peeled from his flesh. She couldn’t say how, only that his face changed without changing. His fingers tightened around hers. “I’ll stay here with you. Quit freighting. Whatever it takes.”