The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She tried twice to gain the counter, then pressed her arms to her sides in frustration. A moment later Quillan touched the small of her back. “Step away, Carina.” He shouldered his way through, then raised two plates of food over the heads of those seated. He found for her a stool at a tall side table and stood beside her with his plate in hand.

  Carina examined the fare. It was boiled eggs with a strip of beefsteak and fried potatoes. There was no time to consider quality. First-class passenger or not, if she didn’t gulp it down in the remaining ten minutes, she’d go hungry. The food was not bad, but as one accustomed to savoring her meals, the experience left her giddy. Quillan had barely acquired them a cup of coffee each when the train whistle blew. It was too hot to gulp, so Carina sucked a few desperate sips from the top, then left the rest.

  “I feel like I’m riding a tornado.” She hurried behind him to a larger train even more elegantly appointed with brass trim and fittings. It shrilled its whistle as they approached. Carina choked in the smoke and cinders that wafted from its smokestack on a gust of wind. She caught a glimpse of the Miss Prestons likewise switching trains. With her wrap billowing out and her skirts flapping against her legs, the elder aunt looked like a bewildered prairie fowl. No doubt Priscilla would have a reason for that, some bump on her poor aunt’s head. Another gust blasted. Carina tasted dust and felt it on her teeth. That was one thing about traveling by train. One never escaped the dust.

  The Pullman coach was arranged much as the last had been, though the seat pairs were separated by curtains, and she noticed that this one had upper berths that pulled out for sleeping. The wood ceiling was polished as shiny as a mirror and ornamented with moldings, with a stained-glass design in the center. Carina took it all in at a glance as Quillan vouchsafed their seats.

  Once settled, she dug into her valise for toothbrush and powder, though she’d scarcely had time to chew her meal. She headed for the curtained retiring room at the back of the car. When her teeth were scrubbed clean, she scrutinized them and mentally pronounced them strong, white, and well aligned. She meant to keep them that way. Whatever other travails she faced, losing her teeth would not be one. She was just bilious enough to make sure of it.

  Carina returned to Quillan. He was watching Priscilla Preston carry on across the aisle with a new audience. As he listened to a new list of brain organs and their corresponding characteristics, his face changed from bemused to irritated. He turned. “How widely held is that phrenology, do you think?”

  Carina shrugged. “I’d heard of it only.”

  Quillan seemed disproportionately irked. He frowned. “If people judge so easily by the outward appearance of someone’s head or any other such nonsense . . .” He frowned and didn’t finish.

  But she knew what he meant. Glancing down, she saw his mother’s locket in his palm. He was still stinging. And wondering. Did people look at him and find something undesirable? Impossible! But she herself had done so. She’d seen a rogue—a handsome, heartless blackguard. But inside he was vulnerable, caring. Why couldn’t he show it?

  She said, “We all judge by what we see. Maybe not head bumps or complexion, but expression, perhaps, or comportment.”

  Quillan shook his head. “It shouldn’t be that way. People shouldn’t judge without knowing.”

  “But, Quillan, God gave us the capacity to discern, to intuit.” She leaned toward him. “And we choose the face we want to show.”

  He looked at her. “Not you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You show it all,” he said. “Everything you think, everything you feel, everything you want is right there for all the world to see. You’re so real it . . . it hurts.”

  She squeezed his hand holding the locket. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

  He said nothing more. After a while he turned back to the window, which left her vulnerable when Priscilla Preston returned.

  She looked toward Quillan, though she spoke to Carina. “Do you think we’ll see bandits?”

  “Bandits?” Carina raised her brows. The woman certainly chose the strangest topics.

  “You know, train robbers, highwaymen. Like Black Bart, the poet? Or Sam . . . Oh, what was his name? I never can remember his last name.”

  “Bass. Like the fish.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Anyway what are the chances someone will rob the express box, do you think?” Miss Preston’s eyes took on a queer glow.

  “Not high, I think.” Carina had seen enough lawlessness to last a lifetime. The last thing she wanted was a notorious outlaw keeping her from home. Dime stories of gunfighters and robbers like Black Bart who left a poem in place of the contents of the express box might thrill someone like Priscilla Preston, but having had her own pockets pinched and nearly ending up in a noose for her involvement with Berkley Beck, a man as unscrupulous as any train robber, Carina was not intrigued with the thought.

  “What about Indians? They’ve been known to derail trains.”

  Where was she getting her information? “It’s been a long time since that has happened.”

  “Can’t you envision anything thrilling to break the monotony of this bleak landscape?” Miss Preston stared disdainfully at the never-ending plains of Wyoming passing at a tedious pace. “Why go west if it’s as tame as anywhere else?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of excitement in San Francisco.”

  “Oh, balls and galas, I know.” Miss Preston tossed her head. “I want something dangerous.”

  “Try walking the streets after dark.”

  Miss Preston turned to her, one eyelid lowered. “I’m not stupid.” And now she looked at Quillan. “I’m certain if anything does happen to the train, Mr. Shepard will protect us.”

  Quillan turned slowly and leveled his gaze. “What makes you sure of that, Miss Preston?”

  She tipped her head, obviously pleased to have drawn him out at last. “I’ve heard about you western men. Not smart and natty like our swells, but rough and ready to the quick. Am I right?”

  Quillan eyed her so long, she started to fidget. Carina knew how it felt. He said, “What do the bumps on my head show?”

  “Well . . .” Her eyes traveled up his face. “It’s hard to say with all that hair.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “But I’d guess at a certain lack of restraint. A small propensity for violence, perhaps. Am I right?”

  His eyes turned to flint, and Carina trembled. Would he do something rash? He was irked enough, she was sure. Had Miss Preston singled him out as the most dangerous and therefore interesting potential of the moment? Was she intentionally baiting him?

  “Someone of your genius need ask?”

  Carina winced at his sarcasm, but Miss Preston merely basked. She didn’t understand Quillan’s caustic nature, another mark against her theory. If it were so obvious, wouldn’t she see Quillan was baiting her back?

  “What do you do, Mr. Shepard?” Her eyes darted quickly down the length of his frame. “Buffalo hunter? Indian agent? No, wait, your wife said you were from a mining town. I bet you were a hired gun.”

  Quillan didn’t answer.

  “Oh, there’s no need for embarrassment. That’s simply thrilling. Did you ever kill a man?”

  Had her morbid curiosity no limit? Without a flicker of emotion Quillan said, “Only women . . . who talk too much.”

  Carina caught her breath.

  Miss Preston’s eyelids parted, the whole of her blue irises slightly bulging, but she laughed. “Well! Maybe I’ll see something more interesting, after all, than the polygamists in Salt Lake. Are you taking the train from Ogden into the Mormon city?”

  Carina shook her head. “We weren’t planning on it.”

  But Quillan said, “Why should I see another man’s wives when I’ve plenty of my own?”

  “You haven’t.” Miss Preston’s finger just touched her outturned teeth.

  Quillan shrugged. “Of course they’re all squaws.”

  Miss Preston
stared, obviously doubtful, yet not certain he was in jest. Carina could almost hear her thoughts. Would he, could he, be serious? Indian wives. Well, wasn’t he just the sort? And then she shivered. Perhaps even Miss Preston had her limits. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I must see to my aunt. I’ve left her too long.”

  Carina watched her hasten back to her seat, then turned to Quillan. “Omaccio.”

  His rogue’s smile. “Indeed.”

  THIRTEEN

  Fair play:

  Conformity to established rules, no matter how unfair.

  —Quillan

  SPARRING WITH MISS PRESTON had annoyed Quillan enough that he could not slip back into his reverie. He felt no stake in the conflict as he had with Carina in their early skirmishes, but the woman’s ideas had gotten under his skin. He didn’t realize he was brooding until Carina mentioned dinner and he noticed the time had passed. He should apologize for being such poor company, but Carina seemed to understand as he stood and led her through the cars.

  He pushed opened the final door. One look told him the Pullman Hotel Express dining car was an extreme improvement over the station diners. With his stomach signaling anticipation, Quillan seated Carina at a flower-adorned table with damask cloth. The aromas rivaled even Carina’s cooking. Almost as soon as he’d seated his wife, Quillan found a white-jacketed server at his elbow.

  The man handed them menus. “Wine list, mistuh?”

  Quillan shook his head. “Just something to fill the space between my ribs and backbone.”

  But Carina looked eagerly over the list and said, “Look. Here is one of Haraszthy’s wines.”

  “Someone you know?” He looked over the fancy printing of the page.

  “A very famous viticulturist. One of the first in Sonoma. We must try a bottle.”

  “Choose what you like.” Quillan looked over the food selections, finding few with which he was readily acquainted. He read the frilled offers of blue-winged teal, antelope steaks, boiled ham and tongue, fresh trout. There was pheasant and plover in a choice of sauces. Corn on the cob and fresh fruit. Filling his space would be a pleasure.

  He glanced up at Carina. Was she used to such finery? She certainly looked the part, though his lace collar and amethyst pin contributed. Not that she needed ornamentation. Next to Carina, Miss Priscilla Preston was limp lettuce. But he didn’t want to kill his appetite thinking of that one.

  They ordered, and the food was everything it claimed. Carina took dainty bites of her browned trout with hardly a bone to be found. Quillan’s pheasant in caper sauce was tender and savory, the corn kernels plump and buttery on the cob. He just might enjoy himself and forget the cloud of rejection and unease, the brooding over the DeMornay’s treatment of his mother.

  A young gentleman approached the table, hands in his silk-embroidered vest. “May I make your acquaintance, sir? I’m William Scott Bennet, assistant prosecuting attorney, Boston.”

  Quillan stood and shook the man’s hand. Even beyond the discrepancy in dress, there was no question of the disparity in their stations. What could this young man want with him? “Quillan Shepard at your service.”

  “I understand you’re a bit of a hand with a gun, sir.”

  Quillan hardly needed to guess where that information came from. But what was the man’s point?

  “Several of us are putting together a shoot in the morning. Care to join in?”

  “What’s your target?”

  “Prairie fowl, antelope, and buffalo, if luck is with us.” He took one hand from his vest and balanced himself on the back of Carina’s seat for the turn. “We’ll be shooting from the parlor car.”

  Quillan eyed the popinjay. “How will you retrieve your plunder?”

  The man smiled. “That would be a trick, wouldn’t it? But join us, won’t you? We’d like to make it a contest, try our hands against a gunman.”

  Quillan stiffened. Miss Prescott had obviously been prolific of tongue. He should not have misled her. Though he did have his gun in the travel bag, he had no intention of becoming a spectacle. “I’m afraid I must decline.”

  “But, sir, it will be the high point of our jaunt. How better to test our sportsman’s abilities than with a master? And surely we’ll give you a bit of a run.”

  Quillan glanced at Carina, then back. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

  Mr. Bennet laughed. “No need to be bashful, sir. I’m young, but astute. Part of the job, you know, reading character.”

  Quillan tensed. There it was again. Judged by appearances. He had a sudden desire to put this upstart in his place. “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock on the nose.”

  Quillan nodded, then turned back to Carina.

  She raised her brows. “You’re doing it?”

  He shrugged.

  “What if you lose?”

  “Then Mr. William Scott Bennet will have a story to tell.”

  She sat back and eyed him. “But you won’t lose, will you?”

  Quillan picked up his knife and ran the blade through the sauce pooled at the edge of his plate. “I haven’t seen them shoot.”

  “But I’ve seen you. You took the head off a rattlesnake with one bullet shooting from the holster.”

  “Reflex.”

  She looked askance. “Another might have shot off his own foot. How did you learn?”

  Quillan stared down at his plate. “After I left home, I realized how vulnerable I was, a boy of fourteen with little muscle and less experience. I’d been taken in by someone just a little older, a little wilier. I knew I wouldn’t let that happen again, but what of someone stronger, deadlier? So I purchased a side arm and taught myself to use it.”

  “To use it well.”

  “Came fairly naturally.” He gave her a quick grin. “Just like for you.”

  “Beh.” She flicked her chin with her fingers.

  He definitely needed to learn that gesture. It was so descriptive. “Have you finished eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest we retire.” He led her back to their seats, reached up and pulled down the upper berth and fixed it into place, then rearranged the two facing seats to make a lower berth. Neither would hold both of them, and even with the curtains it would be uncouth. “Have you a preference?”

  Carina looked up at the berth over her head. “I’ll take the lower.”

  He unfolded the blankets provided, tossed one up for himself, then arranged hers. He pulled the curtains closed around them, drew her into his arms and kissed her. Then he climbed to the upper berth and removed his coat and vest and shirt. He laid them carefully beside him, then settled down onto the pillow. Looking up he saw his own face clearly, and that of the woman in the next berth over. It was the elderly Miss Preston, and she obviously had no notion of his view in the polished ceiling. She read a small book, Fireside Tales, her bespectacled eyes straining to read the print in the insufficient light.

  Quillan turned discreetly to his side, thankful Carina was not atop where the man at footside would glimpse her. Something to remember if he ever traveled the Pullman Palace car again.

  The air was brisk, the wind gusty as the party opened the side doors of the parlor car and assembled along the narrow balcony for the shoot. Carina counted four men armed for the sport, but many others had collected to watch. Quillan was in his buckskin, with another day’s growth on his face. Rogue pirate, indeed.

  Miss Preston pushed in close to her. “Isn’t this fun? I hope they find enough game to make a good contest. Will your husband win, do you think?”

  Carina shrugged. “I don’t know the rules.”

  “First to spot, first to shoot claims the prize. If they hit it, of course. That man in the brown chesterfield and gaiters is keeping the score.”

  Carina eyed the sandy-haired man with a pad of paper ready, wearing white pantaloons covered to the knee in leather gaiters. He seemed a bit of a popinjay.

  “He’s a newspaperman.” Miss Preston said. �
��I wouldn’t be surprised if you see your husband’s name in print. Supposing he wins, of course.” She licked her finger and held it up. “Wind is from the west.”

  Carina didn’t point out that the train’s own motion caused that eastward breeze, and the gusts buffeted the side of the cars from the north. Not quite the genius she thought herself, that Miss Preston. Quillan stood ready with the others, armed with his Colt .45, his Winchester rifle leaning on the wall beside him. The side arm hung holstered at his hip as she’d seen it first. He hadn’t worn it since the demise of the roughs made his passage in and out of Crystal less dangerous. But she knew he carried it with him.

  The crowd chattered until a yell of fowl and a shot rang out. It was William Scott Bennet who took aim and fired at a plover that took to the sky at the train’s passing. He must have failed to account for the train’s motion, for his shot missed. A moment later Quillan took down a second plover that plummeted from its startled ascent. Bennet frowned, but the crowd cheered.

  “Waste of good meat,” Quillan said.

  Miss Preston tittered. “Did you see him draw? He drew from his holster faster than I could see.”

  Carina nodded. “He once shot the head from a striking rattlesnake.” Perhaps it wasn’t striking, but it might have been.

  Miss Preston’s eyes did their spread and bulge. She turned swiftly and fixated on Quillan once again. In a short while someone hollered again and fired at a dusty brown blob not far from the train.

  Quillan turned with a scowl. “There’s no sport in prairie dogs.”

  But the scorekeeper counted it, so there were four more shots before the rest ducked underground. Quillan refused to shoot. A kestrel darted up from a ravine and Quillan hollered, “Falcon,” and shot. Both it and the mouse in its talons crashed to the ground.

  “That should count for two,” someone hollered. “Brought down two with one shot.”

  The scorekeeper agreed. Now Quillan was tied with the youth who’d shot three of the prairie dogs. The train was approaching a trellis over the same ravine, and everyone stopped for a moment to watch. It seemed such a rickety contrivance could never support the mighty, chugging steel monster, but it did. Directly beyond the ravine a herd of antelope bounded, their delicate white and tawny forms leaping.