The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Her face was angry—angry and hurt and confused.

  “That’s why I went to see Horace Tabor first thing. If the consolidateds know Tabor’s involved in the venture, maybe they won’t try to force my hand. But if there’s a hang-up . . . The New Boundless is too valuable, Carina. Alex Makepeace won’t stand a chance if the big boys enter the fray.”

  “So sell him your part, and let D.C. worry about his own.” Her voice was bitter.

  Quillan answered softly. “You know I can’t.”

  She started to cry, then gripped her chest and turned her head away from him. But he knew it wasn’t physical pain. He dropped down beside the bed. “I won’t go. I don’t care about the mine. I don’t care who gets it. I won’t leave you.”

  She held herself, weeping. “It hurts so much!”

  He pulled her to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  She tried to push away, but he held her tightly until she softened and sank into his embrace, now crying silently.

  He’d held her unconscious the night he learned of her attack, cradled her and cried out to God for help. He wouldn’t hurt her further. “I won’t go.”

  “You have to.”

  For a moment he wasn’t sure she’d actually said that. “I don’t have to and I won’t.”

  She pushed back from his chest, deep brown eyes full with tears.

  “You must do it. For Alex. It’s the right thing.”

  The stab of her words went right through his solar plexus and rendered him unable to answer until the feeling passed. For Alex. For Alex she could suffer Quillan’s departure. Stop it! The thoughts would drive him crazy! “Just tell me what you want, Carina.” He sure wouldn’t figure it out for himself.

  “I don’t know.” She sobbed. “Signore, help me, I don’t know.”

  “You’re overexcited.” He laid her gently back. “Rest now, or Doc Felden will have my neck.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “No.”

  “But you should?” Her eyes were obsidian pools.

  “No. I can stay as long as you need me to.” And hang the New Boundless, Alex Makepeace, and all the consolidated miners who would love to add his property to theirs.

  She sighed, pressing her fingers to her eyes and dropping her head deeper into the pillows. He stood over her, hating himself for wounding her yet again. Her hands dropped to her breast and folded there, but she didn’t open her eyes or speak. He went and sat at the table.

  He was a third of the way through St. Mark when she spoke. “In the morning, you can go.”

  He turned. Once again their eyes met, though this time the storm kept them apart. Quillan was fairly certain he would never undo the damage he’d done her, and even though she seemed to have spent her tears, she was far from pleased. Still, if she were willing . . .

  God, what do I do? A peaceful assurance filled him. The Lord would look after Carina just as Alan had said. He nodded without answering, and when her eyes closed again and she fell asleep, he returned to Mark’s gospel, devouring it before he went to Mae’s for lunch.

  He spent the afternoon committing portions of Luke’s gospel to memory while Carina alternately rested and read. It seemed strange to be with her inside the same four walls, each holding his own silence. Part of him appreciated the chance to be quiet together. Mostly he worried that he was doing something wrong. Maybe he should talk to her, but what was there to say?

  Several times Èmie came to consult about the menu for the restaurant that evening, but Carina seemed listless and disheartened. Perhaps she was reluctant to show her enthusiasm when he was there. If it weren’t for Mae’s and Alan’s instructions to sit still, bide, and pray, he’d . . . what? He was hard pressed to think of something better he could do.

  Mae brought dinner on a tray for Carina and served Quillan’s on the small table where he studied. With a look half amused, half approving, she sashayed from the room, her swinging girth somehow accentuating both messages. Quillan noticed Carina cross herself and fold her hands over her food. He offered a silent grace of his own. He’d been tempted for a moment to speak a blessing as Reverend Shepard had when Quillan was a boy, but he was afraid to break the silence between them.

  Though Carina had given permission for him to go, she was not peaceful with it. And he was afraid one word from him would set her off again, her Italian blood something to contend with. The food was flavorful and hearty, Carina’s recipe for certain. But it lacked . . . what? The touch of her hands preparing it? The graceful communication of her hopes into the dough she pressed and twisted?

  He felt an unholy pleasure that the food was not the same without Carina. Not one man in Crystal would experience her cooking again if he could help it. Just the thought of those dirty miners, and even men like Alex Makepeace and the mayor himself—

  For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies: These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man. The Scripture sprang to his mind from days of memorizing his wickedness at the instigation of his stepmother, who saw nothing good in him. But the words kindled inside his mind as though burned there by a divine finger. Bitter, unkind thoughts would do him more harm than good.

  Quillan looked down at his plate, certain the food would now taste like sawdust, just recompense for his thoughts. But it didn’t. It still tasted good if not remarkable. He wondered what Carina was thinking, but glancing up, found her nibbling at her portion with little interest. “You need to eat, Carina.”

  She shrugged. “You sound like Mae.”

  “Mae’s a wise woman.”

  Carina sighed, pushed the tray away. “I’m not hungry.”

  He knew better than to force it. He stood and took the tray from the bed and set it on the table. Maybe in a while she would want it. But when he’d finished his and looked up again, she was asleep. It seemed she was getting an inordinate amount of sleep, but then, her body had a lot of healing to do. Gently he removed the extra pillows from behind her head until she was lying down. He pulled the covers over her shoulders, then extinguished the light and got into bed, careful not to jostle or touch her.

  He’d spent the day in prayer, hoping the Lord would make things clear. He’d asked to know God, to understand His purpose. And he did seem to grasp something more. The words of the gospels were planted deeply in his mind, held there by the special gift of memory he’d possessed from his youth. He settled into sleep, trusting the rest would come with time.

  FIVE

  Duty is a cowardice by which a man eludes, the deeper call of heart and soul a woman’s love exudes.

  From her deep unfathomed well, he marches straight and tall.

  Certain in resolve and zeal, “darling, I must” the clarion call.

  —Quillan

  WAKING AT THE SOUND of the door opening, Carina watched Quillan go out with Cain’s dog—now Quillan’s—to prepare for his trip. In her silent thoughts, she had begged God to side with her, to force Quillan to stay, but all God had said was, I am sufficient. Bene. Once again she was alone. She sulked. “Is this all I will have, Signore? Am I to be alone? Will you never be finished punishing me? Oh, why did I ever leave Sonoma?” A pang so sharp it vied with her physical injuries stabbed her heart. “I want to go home, Signore.”

  But wasn’t that what Quillan was trying to accomplish? Why did she take his efforts as a personal affront? Because she didn’t trust him. How could she? He had deserted her, left her alone to face—She recalled the attack, which had damaged equally her heart and spirit. And her baby.

  She clutched her belly. How could she ache so for a child she’d never seen? A child conceived in error, spite, and anger. How could she long for its tiny flutters inside her? How could she not? Even so early, she had treasured the presence inside her. She covered her face and wept.

  If God was sufficient, why did she hurt so? She thought of Quillan lying beside her in the bed last night, h
is back against her like a wall. He had not reached for her, not held her. He felt guilty perhaps, sorry to repentance, but he didn’t love her. How could he love her and not sense her need?

  Carina cried harder. “Now I understand, Signore, how sins, even though forgiven, carry a price. How much better it would have been had I never left home, never tried to punish Flavio’s infidelity, never sought my own way.”

  Oofa!

  Only once or twice had Carina experienced God’s direct chastisement, and the word in her mind sobered her now.

  Daughter, I am sufficient. I Am.

  Carina’s breath heaved in her chest as the words sank in. The promise was so astounding. Here was God, the God of the universe, promising to be whatever she needed. And she could sulk?

  Chastened, Carina crossed herself. “Forgive me, Signore! What a fool I am! Oh, Dio . . .” Peace permeated and surrounded her.

  How long she sat and basked, feeling its healing power, she couldn’t say, only that when Quillan came back through the door, she smiled so sincerely, he stopped and stared at her.

  “What?” His stance was defensive, and sensing that, Sam circled him, then faced her as well, eyes earnest.

  “Do you think something is wrong because I smile at my husband?”

  Quillan stood silently, then, “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Yes. No. Actually, God has.”

  He raised his brows. “God has what?”

  “Changed my mind and my heart. I’m not angry.”

  Quillan advanced and stood beside the bed. When he was gone, she would picture him there, looking exactly as he looked now. “Then you’re not upset I’m going?”

  She shook her head, thankful she could give him that. He would not have to stew over her while he made the treacherous trip to Fairplay.

  He stayed still and silent so long, her smile faded. “Don’t you believe me?”

  He nodded, still unspeaking.

  Why was he upset? She could feel his tension. “What is it?”

  Lowering his face, he said, “Nothing. I’m glad you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Her laugh surprised even herself. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Quillan’s face bristled suddenly, and again the air crackled between them. “What am I supposed to say? Do you think I didn’t see Makepeace leaving?”

  “Alex?” Her stupefaction was not feigned. “Leaving where?”

  “Here. Leaving your door and walking away as though the devil were on his heels.”

  Now she understood. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I never saw him.”

  “You’re saying he wasn’t here with you?”

  “If he was at my door I never heard him. I was praying.”

  Quillan’s throat worked, and the volatile clouds churned in his eyes until they parted to show her a need so raw it hurt. “I can’t stand the thought of him here with you.”

  “He’s not.”

  “He will be.”

  “Not here.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “Where it matters. It’s not Alex Makepeace I love.” She engaged his eyes, forcing him to see. She had told him once before that it wasn’t Flavio she loved. How could he not see that it was he?

  “Oh, Quillan, you are a pirate. You stole not only my earthly possessions, but my heart, as well. Don’t you see? It’s you—obstinate, impossible man that you are.” She caught his face between her hands. “I love you.”

  For a moment she thought he would cry, and if he did, she had no idea what she would say or do. But instead he caught her own face between his hands and kissed her, kissed her so long and hungrily she could scarcely breathe. She clutched his hair in her fingers, his wild honey mane. His arms closed around her, and she felt his passion surging through the muscles. He was her husband, and he loved her. His body told her better than his words, his lack of words.

  “Now I can’t go.” His voice was hoarse and pained.

  Laughing softly, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “You have to.”

  His fingers dug into her back between her shoulder blades. “You always win, don’t you?”

  “Do you feel like you’ve lost?”

  “Lost control, lost my mind.” He kissed her again, groaning softly. “I don’t know how to love. I want to, but I don’t know how.”

  “You know.” She clasped his face and drew back. “You loved Cain, and you love D.C.”

  “An old man and a boy.”

  “You love Mae.”

  “Mae?” His brows rose abruptly.

  “You helped save her life.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You saved mine. Three times.” She drew him back and kissed his lips softly, then circled his neck and kissed him deeply. With Quillan’s wall torn down, she couldn’t restrain what she felt for him. God had promised to be sufficient, but in his grace He had added on to that the love of this man. And now she felt Quillan’s tears on her cheek.

  “Then you’ll believe me if I say it?” It was hardly more than a whisper.

  “Try.” She spoke into the softness of his new mustache.

  “I love you, Carina.”

  “I know.”

  He crushed her, but not even the pain of her bruises could make her pull away. It would be ten times more painful now to watch him walk out the door. But in some ways, less. She would not have to worry whether he would return.

  Quillan tried to remember all the reasons he had to go to Fairplay. They mattered, he knew. Of course they did. He breathed the scent of Carina’s hair, her wonderful cascade of rippling silk that hung over her shoulders and onto her back. Silken threads of charcoal black, shimmering iridescent plumage, let them swallow me up, entangle and entwine, ensnare my restless feet and tether me like a hawk’s jesses, let me drown, let me drown in her tresses.

  He slowly drew back, forcefully governing himself. Catching Carina’s hands together at his chest, he looked into her face. She looked like an angel, peaked brows over dark melting eyes, lips the color of dawn, darker now from his kisses. He wanted more. He wanted to kiss and hold her all through the day and into the night. He wanted to board up the windows and bolt the door.

  But he had to go. If he didn’t leave early he’d never make it over the pass to Fairplay. So far the day was clear, and he should capitalize on that. He brought her fingers to his lips, held them there. “I have to go.”

  She nodded.

  “I want to stay.”

  “I know.” She opened her fingers and held them to his cheek.

  “Once this sale is finished, once you’re able to travel—”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Only God knows what happens next.” Her smile was soft and sad. She was trying not to cry. If she cried he wouldn’t go.

  She stroked his cheek. “Take Sam with you.”

  “No. I want him here.”

  “I have people here. You need him. I need to know you’re not alone on that road. If nothing else, he’ll keep you warm.”

  Quillan glanced at the dog. Sam wanted to come. It was in the flapping of his tail, the arch of his neck, his readiness to spring up from his prone position before the door. “All right. I’ll come back as soon as I can, as soon as I hear back from D.C.”

  She nodded again, and he guessed her throat was as full as his.

  “Don’t forget what I said.”

  “How could I?”

  He gave her his rogue’s smile, but only half managed it. Then he turned, whistled to Sam to follow, and left before he changed his mind.

  His step was unaccountably light as he cut through the congestion to the livery. His wagon stood outside, loaded with provisions and emergency tools: ax, shovel, firewood, tarps.

  Alan sat outside in the winter sunshine soaping a harness. “You’re off, then?”

  Quillan nodded. “With Carina’s blessing, if you can believe it.”

  Alan grinned. “I believe it, boyo.”

  “Then believe this: I can’t
court her anymore.”

  Alan’s grin crumbled. “Are ye daft?”

  “I can’t court her because I already told her everything, made a soppy fool of myself all over her.”

  Alan slapped the lines against his thigh and laughed. “That’s it, now! I dinna ken ye’d be so simple!” He shook his head, befuddled. “The courtin’ never stops, Quillan. No matter how much ye love her.”

  Quillan stared. “What am I missing?”

  Alan shook his head. “Love is sunshine to the rose. It can’t stop shinin’ just because the bud begins to bloom.”

  Quillan reached a hand to Alan’s shoulder. “Thank you, Alan.”

  Alan patted his chest. “Follow your heart, Quillan. It understands more than your mind.”

  Quillan pulled himself into the box of his wagon as he had so many times over the past two years. His mind was no slackard. He used it prodigiously while he drove the long hours alone. But Alan was right. Intellect could only take him so far. What he needed now were things of the heart: trust, faith, love.

  The waiting was easier when Èmie or Mae or Joe Turner stopped in to chat. Even Lucia had been loquacious, and Carina wondered if it was a conspiracy among her friends to cheer her in Quillan’s absence. She mused how each one had come into her life. Èmie she’d met at the baths, a stiff, ghostly woman drained of joy. Berkley Beck had introduced her to Mae and vouchsafed a room in the boardinghouse Carina’s first night in town. Had he intended even then to control and possess her? But Mae was a treasure for all her rough ways, and Carina had seen her soften like wax held between the palms.

  Then Joe—sweet, funny Joe—who believed she’d made his fortune by stealing his room. He’d made her a legend: Lady Luck. Lucia, they’d found in desperate circumstances and hired into the restaurant. She was dogged in devotion to both Carina and Èmie. As were Celia and Elizabeth, twins brought to her attention by Alex. Their father was a rocked-up miner, no longer able to work. And then, of course, there was Alex.