“In this room?” She crossed to him.
“In this chair.” He turned and took her in his arms. “Thank you, Carina.” He bent, and it was a long while before she was free to answer. When he released her, she stroked her fingers over his scratchy jaw.
“Sorry.” He scraped his palm over it. “Guess I’ll shave before dining.”
She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “You prefer that look.”
He touched the skin beside her mouth. “I don’t want to chafe you.”
“At luncheon?” She raised her brows.
“After.”
One word could set her heart pounding? She would not let on so easily. “Should we see the DeMornays after?” That was their purpose, after all. And she could hardly wait to meet Rose’s family, Quillan’s family.
He hung his thumbs in his pants waist. “I don’t know.” He walked to the fireplace, poured coal into the brazier. Then he added kindling and flicked a match. Warmth and light kindled, and he held a palm to it. Firelight played over his features as he squatted there.
She sensed his hesitance, but didn’t understand it. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
He glanced up. “Not altogether.” He stood and dusted off his hands.
She touched his arm. “Quillan, what is it?”
“I’m not sure what good it will do.”
“Good?” She turned him toward her. “To know they have a grandson, to learn what became of their daughter!”
He winced.
“Knowing is better than wondering. And you! You’ll see your family, know here”—she pressed her hand to her heart—“from whom you came. You have to go, Quillan.”
“They have their lives, Carina.”
“And you’re part of them. They just don’t know it yet.” She caught his hands between hers. “Family, Quillan, is the most important thing.”
He expelled a slow breath. “Guess I’ll clean up, then.”
Carina smiled. He would take it head on. “We should send a runner, requesting a visit. Do you have Mr. Tabor’s introduction?”
He took it from his vest.
“Good. We’ll send that, too.”
His mouth quirked up.
She put her hands on her hips. “What?”
“Good thing I have you to soften the blow.”
She slipped her arms around his waist. How natural it seemed to touch him. Was it only weeks ago she thought she didn’t know him? He hooked his hands behind her neck, resting his arms on her shoulders. They were hard and heavy, working arms, lean and strong. “Keep the mustachio. It’s perfect.”
He rubbed it across her forehead, kissed her there, then let go.
Two hours later they rode a hired rig to the DeMornays’ home in an elite neighborhood. Though not among the original founders, they had an enviable niche in Denver society, and their location demonstrated that. Carina looked up at the trim red-brick house as Quillan lifted her from the carriage. She felt daunted but hid it for his sake.
In his wedding suit, hair tied back, Quillan looked fine and jaunty, his mustache bold, his eyes subdued. Surely they would welcome him. He hadn’t explained their visit, only requested it on grounds of mutual importance. He’d stared a long time at the reply, William DeMornay’s card and a brief inscription: On Mr. Tabor’s recommendation, I can spare a moment at four o’clock today.
Not exactly warm, but then, Mr. DeMornay had no idea it was his grandson he was corresponding with. A maid answered their knock and led them to a parlor. “Wait here, please.”
Carina felt Quillan’s unease. He stood very still—to a casual eye, contained. But to her . . . So much rested on this, so much of who he was. Signore, give him courage.
He held a packet in one hand. Carina knew its contents. Rose’s diary and a deed to the Rose Legacy mine. He had made his claim official before leaving Crystal, and the land agent had issued him a fresh deed based on the claim. It included only the information Rose and Wolf had given the first time. No surnames.
The door opened, and the DeMornays came in together. Carina was glad for that. They had requested an audience with both, but William had worded his reply in the singular, and she didn’t know whether that would include Quillan’s grandmother, as well.
“Good afternoon.” Mrs. DeMornay motioned them toward a pair of blue leaf-patterned chairs. “Please sit.”
Carina and Quillan took their places. Mrs. DeMornay sat across from them on an amber tufted-velvet chair. William DeMornay remained standing. He said, “I know Horace Tabor more by reputation than acquaintance.”
Quillan nodded. “He said as much.” Then he stood and extended his hand. “I’m Quillan Shepard. My wife, Carina.”
William’s handshake was dry and peremptory. “How do you do.” He turned back to Quillan. “You have a matter of importance to discuss?”
Quillan reluctantly regained his chair. Carina guessed he didn’t relish being put on a lower plane by this coldly indifferent man. He said, “Mr. DeMornay, it might be good if you sat.”
Carina glanced at Mrs. DeMornay. She was a feathery woman with very narrow teeth that protruded in a slight overbite that, surprisingly, did not diminish her beauty. Even at her age she had a graceful bearing, and her silvery hair, swept upward from her face, was full and lustrous.
William DeMornay sat down in a green leather chair, eschewing the matching footstool. He folded his leathery fingers across one knee. “Now then?”
Carina had no idea how Quillan would handle this. But it was his to handle. She silently started to pray.
“Mr. and Mrs. DeMornay, are you acquainted with Rose Annelise DeMornay?”
They both visibly stiffened. William said, “Why do you ask?”
“Because if you’re not, the reason for my visit is irrelevant.”
William stayed silent a long moment, then, “Our daughter was named Rose Annelise.”
So the relationship was what Carina suspected. She was looking at Rose’s parents, the ones Rose couldn’t bear to shame. But before either she or Quillan could respond, William added tightly, “She is dead.” He knew? Had Rose contacted them? Had word reached them from tiny Placerville?
Quillan said, “I know. But Rose Annelise DeMornay was my mother.”
Very slowly Mrs. DeMornay’s hand rose to her throat.
William DeMornay made no sound, just stiffly rose from his chair. “I think you had better leave.”
Quillan reached into the packet, drew out the deed. “This is the mine my father staked in Placerville.”
William DeMornay’s features pulled tightly. “Whoever your father was, he had nothing to do with my daughter.”
Quillan brought out the diary, laid it atop the deed on his knee. Mrs. DeMornay gasped softly.
William’s hands clenched at his sides. He drew himself up. “Our daughter Rose died at the age of nineteen. She’s buried in the churchyard. There is no possible way she is your mother.” Before Quillan could answer, the old man’s mouth twisted. “What are you after? Money?”
Quillan looked as though he’d lost his breath. Then Carina saw cold rage come into his eyes. He stood up abruptly. “I didn’t come here for money.” He stared Mr. DeMornay in the face until the older man looked down. Then he put the diary and deed back into the packet and folded it into his hand. He looked at Carina, and she stood up.
That was all? He would leave without making them see? She wanted to stomp her foot, tell them all to consider Rose and stop acting so stubborn. How could they refuse to acknowledge the truth? Mrs. DeMornay recognized the diary. Carina had seen that clearly. Didn’t she want to know what the pages contained? What her daughter’s words could tell her?
Quillan put a hand to her elbow. Did he suspect she might blurt out all she thought? She turned to Mrs. DeMornay. “Thank you for meeting with us. I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked the woman sharply in the eye. Her loss was greater now that it included her grandson as well, and she wanted the woman to know it.
> Mrs. DeMornay looked up from her to Quillan. Was it longing in her eyes, or age and sorrow? She said nothing.
William opened the door himself to end their audience. Carina pulled her coat closely about her, the cold emanating from Mr. DeMornay as she passed him. What hatred. The maid showed them out, handing Quillan his hat. He put it on his head silently. They walked down to the carriage.
The cabby hustled to open the door. “Where to now, sir?”
Quillan said, “The cemetery.”
Carina jerked her face up.
“Which one?” The man gave Carina a hand in.
“Where’s the DeMornay plot?”
“Oh, that’n. Not far.”
Quillan climbed in beside her. Carina felt him shaking. Was it rage or disappointment? And either way, what was he doing? Why would he visit an empty grave? No matter what the DeMornays said, she knew the truth and Quillan did, too. They rode in silence until they entered the churchyard, and the cabby drew up at the cemetery gate.
“Here you are, then. Shall I wait?”
Quillan nodded. He helped Carina down with none of his usual flourish, then headed through the gates. They walked along rows of impressive family plots, Quillan silent and purposeful.
Oh, Signore, how he must hurt. Would he always be rejected?
The DeMornay plot held one grave, a tall monument with a wreath of roses carved around the nameplate. Rose Annelise DeMornay, beloved daughter. And only nineteen years spanned the dates. Had she been so young when she slipped away and fled, carrying her secret, her shame? But what of the other years, those that brought her to Wolf, that gave her Quillan and took him away? What about the part of her life in her diary? Was it nothing?
She thought of the grave where Rose actually lay, interred with her husband, Wolf, who died with her in love. That grave was marked by a stone on the mountain above the Rose Legacy and covered with wild flowers in the summer. Carina had sat beside that grave and read Rose’s diary and wept for a woman she never knew, yet loved.
Quillan put his hands in his pockets. “They spared no expense.” His tone set her teeth on edge. His hip was slack, his eyes narrowed.
She wished she’d never convinced him to talk to them. “Why would they make her this grave?”
He walked around the wrought iron fencing to the back of the stone tower, staring up at its pristine point. “To create the illusion. The grief-stricken parents of the unsullied daughter. Better dead than disgraced.”
“But what if she’d come back?”
Quillan didn’t answer.
She tried to imagine it. Would they have turned her away, pretended they didn’t know her, either? Impossible. Had they known so well she wouldn’t try? Or had they believed her dead, truly grieved their daughter, and at last built a monument to her memory? “Maybe they knew in their hearts she was dead.”
Again he didn’t answer. She felt him withdrawing. Signore, don’t let him close me out. She wanted to touch him, but he stood too separately. He was fighting, but what?
She rested her hand on the iron fence. “It doesn’t matter what they think. You’ve seen them now.”
“And they’ve seen me.” He gripped two of the posts until his knuckles whitened. Then suddenly he let go. “Come on.” He started for the carriage.
She hurried behind. What was he thinking? Was there something they could do? His stride made her lift her skirts to keep up. “Where are we going?”
He reached the carriage and opened the door before the cabby could climb down from his box. Carina got in.
“Take us back to the hotel,” Quillan called up and pushed in behind her.
She could almost taste his disappointment. What had seemed irresolution, she now knew was self-protection. If she had not argued for the meeting, he might have decided against it. What had he gained? The knowledge that his only family didn’t want him, wouldn’t even believe him.
“They don’t matter.” She reached over and took his hand, felt him stiffen. She expected no answer and got none. It wasn’t true. They had mattered, more than she would have believed. He said nothing the entire drive back. When they reached the room, she expected the same, but though he didn’t speak, he took her hand and led her to the bed, closing the door behind. And that, though the sun had yet to set.
Quillan needed to feel alive. It was as though he’d been snuffed from existence. Seeing his mother’s grave dated before he was born, hearing, “There is no possible way she is your mother.” He knew it was lies, but it hit him anyway. He was nothing, no one.
He kissed Carina. He didn’t want her to talk. Her platitudes changed nothing. He wanted the primal affirmation he found only with her. But when he was through, he felt empty. Carina stroked his head, kissed his brow. She knew him. She knew what he was feeling. But he turned away and stared at the wall.
“Don’t go away.” Her voice was thick and husky.
“You think I’d leave?” He spoke to the wall.
“Here.” She tapped his temple.
She knew him all right. He was closing up. She wanted him to turn, to talk. But he felt like stone. When he didn’t move, she got up and dressed. He heard the door close behind her, and he was glad to be alone. It was familiar territory. His mind wandered over the episode. There was no question he’d found his mother’s people. Nor did he question their obvious disregard.
That was expected, and it no longer hurt. The hard part was learning they had put Rose to death without knowing, maybe without caring where or how she truly was, interred her memory rather than praying for her return. Why? He couldn’t fathom it. He felt an aching tenderness for his mother, wanting to shield her from them, take her where their judgment couldn’t hurt her.
He shook his head. That was foolish. She was beyond all human condemnation. Only God in His mercy had charge of her soul. Not the DeMornays. What had he hoped to accomplish? Certainly not some grand reunion, some open-arm welcome to their long lost progeny. If he was truly honest, he’d hoped to recognize them, to see something of himself, some extension beyond his own being.
Had he looked hard enough he might have found it. Had they conversed he might have seen mannerisms, intonation, expressions. Maybe he had. He closed his eyes and pictured William DeMornay, as stiff and unyielding and silently furious as Quillan felt right now. Strange to think the harder part of his nature came through his mother.
Well, it was done now. But their accusation that he wanted money rankled. As though money were paramount to family and belonging.
What had Carina said? Family was the most important thing. For that he’d pursued it, not for any financial gain. His anger surged. That, at least, he could feel.
Oh, God, help me make sense of it. But he couldn’t. He rolled from the bed and put his pants on, then sat down atop the covers. He’d hardly settled in when Carina came through the door with a tray. Her beauty hit him physically. Had she gone down to the dining room looking so ravishing?
Two plates of pork seasoned with apples, buttered potatoes, and winter squash steamed up as she set the tray on stands across his legs. He looked from it to her. “Did you go down for this?”
“I ordered it up and charged it to your bill.” She settled onto the bed beside him.
He’d never eaten in bed in his life. Unless you counted sitting on the edge of his cot in his tent with a heated can of beans or potatoes. But then the cot had been the only thing to sit on.
She took a napkin from the tray, unfolded it, and laid it against his chest, which he had yet to cover in a shirt. Carina didn’t seem to care. She tucked her hair back behind her ear where it had fallen forward as she leaned toward the tray. With one finger he flicked it loose again.
She turned, suffocated him with the warmth in her eyes. “Do you want to eat or not?”
Unfortunately he did. He blessed the food, saying the prayer Reverend Shepard had taught him as a boy. Then he took the fork and knife and made short work of the meal. He could see Carina’s amusement as she a
te hers with more delicacy. When they finished he moved the tray to the floor and turned to her. “What made you do that?”
“At home, when I was sick or peevish, Mamma would bring me a tray in bed. I always felt like a princess.” She waved her hand in the way that fascinated him.
“So I’m the prince?” He pulled up the side of his mouth. “Far cry from a pirate, isn’t it?”
“Not so far.” She shrugged. “If you consider all the despot rulers.”
Amused, he tucked his arms behind his head and studied her. “I must be wicked, with all my kin against me.”
“Your kin don’t know what they’re missing.” She set the tray on the table beside the bed, then sat again and shook her hair back. Did she know what that hair did to him? “Soon you’ll have more kin than you can stand.”
Carina’s family. And she hadn’t told them about him. He raised her hand and kissed her fingers. “Ever been to Alaska?”
“Alaska!”
“Great salmon fishing.” He stroked her fingers.
She tugged her hand away. “What are you saying?”
“With my wagon I could haul for the canneries. The cost of goods is astounding.”
“You want to go to Alaska?”
Did he? He’d thrown it out as a joke, but just now the thought was mighty appealing. Her face was stricken, though she didn’t say what was obvious to see. She wanted her family, her most important thing.
“Well, maybe we’ll go by way of California.”
She eased. “And maybe we’ll like Sonoma so well, your wandering feet will stop clamoring.”
He smiled. “Well, now. Wandering feet.” He looked down at his gray woolen stockings and curled his toes back.
She settled against him, and he brought his arm down to circle her shoulders. No, wandering was not on his mind.
ELEVEN
What stench is in a tainted soul that righteous men recoil, some fetid, darksome malady which makes their blood to boil.
Why not instead a cleansing balm to wash away the stain, and let men see as God has seen the weariness and pain.
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 13
