The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Quillan stared out the window of the train. Shane Dennison. The sight, the sound of his voice, even the wheedling words he’d used to try once again to draw Quillan into his spell; all of it brought him back to that part of his life of which he was least proud. Had needing human approbation made him so susceptible to influence that even someone of Dennison’s ilk could seem heroic?

  What was this need in him to be accepted, and at the same time make himself so difficult to accept? Hadn’t he tried to push Carina away with everything in him, all the while desperate for her love? It was a war inside. And the Shepards—had he been partly responsible for Leona Shepard’s accusations? Hadn’t he defiantly kept silent, even brazenly misled her at times?

  Shane Dennison. Why had God crossed their paths again? Shane Dennison, to whom Quillan had once confided his unhappiness, his anger toward the reverend, his hatred of the reverend’s wife. Yes, he had prided himself in becoming a thorn to Reverend Shepard, called himself the reverend’s personal demon. Dennison remembered that? After fourteen years?

  As for his “friend,” Dennison seemed to have stayed the course he set for himself. From that first robbery, how many others had followed until now they met up again, on opposite sides of this shootout? Quillan shook his head. It could have gone the other way. One of these days he’d get in over his head defending the underdog or standing for justice in an unjust world. But like so many other things, it seemed a tenacious part of his nature.

  He’d hardly finished the thought when a man came forward, hand extended. It was the one who’d been keeping score for the shooting contest. “Mr. Shepard, may I offer my thanks.” His grip was firm, confident. “Roderick Pierce is the name. I’m in the newspaper business. I’d like to write up our little episode.”

  Quillan shifted, aware of the burning wound in his arm. “The more print you give it, the better he’ll like it.”

  “He?”

  “Shane Dennison, the leader of the band.”

  Pierce pulled out a notebook. “Dennison, you say? Friend of yours?”

  Quillan didn’t answer. He trusted reporters on a level with lawyers like Beck. The man raised a questioning brow. Quillan shook his head. “Not a friend.”

  “But you are acquainted?”

  “I knew him once.”

  The man scribbled. “How long ago?”

  “Long.”

  The pencil paused. Pierce looked up. “One, five, ten years?”

  Still Quillan didn’t answer. He began to feel invaded. What if he told the man the year, the city, the connection he’d had with Shane Dennison. How would the story be twisted? Just as Wolf ’s life—and death—had been twisted into some macabre tale.

  Carina leaned forward. Immediately Pierce took notice. “Ma’am?”

  “My husband is injured. He needs to rest.”

  “Certainly. This will only take a moment.” He turned back to Quillan. “If you could—”

  Carina laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Pierce paused, looked from her to Quillan and back. Quillan felt Pierce’s reluctance crumble against Carina’s resolve. He should speak for himself, but one corner of his mouth twitched as he held his silence. Carina’s lips parted in a soft smile.

  Pierce tipped his head. “As you like, ma’am. Mr. Shepard, I’ll speak with you again.” He turned crisply, glanced once more at Carina, lingering, in Quillan’s assessment, a moment overlong. Then he left.

  Quillan closed his eyes, but even as he did, William Scott Bennet spoke his name. Wearily, Quillan opened his eyes again.

  “Mr. Shepard . . .”

  “Quillan.” It was habit, even if he no longer disdained the name of Shepard as he once had.

  “Quillan.” Bennet held out his hand.

  Quillan shook it.

  “Some of the fellows would like to buy you a drink, sir. Would you do us the honor?”

  Quillan glanced at Carina, but it seemed she wouldn’t come to his rescue this time. Now that she’d mentioned it, he was tired, but he couldn’t refuse the companions who’d stood with him. Quillan got up from his seat. “All right.” He just touched Carina’s shoulder as he left her.

  Carina watched her husband be carried off by his exuberant admirers. It was fitting they should honor him. If not for his insistence, this entire episode could have—would have—ended differently. Yet she knew he was uncomfortable. He was not used to acclaim and acceptance, nor even companionship. Her heart jumped. Maybe now he would learn. Then she caught sight of Roderick Pierce hurrying after them.

  She sighed. Quillan would reveal no more than he liked. But what would the newsman make of Quillan’s reluctance? Would he think her husband had something to hide?

  FOURTEEN

  How weak the man, bone and blood, felled by flying lead.

  How glad my hand was not the one by which he now lies dead.

  —Quillan

  AT GRANGER STATION, Quillan took leave of Carina and followed the Wells Fargo agent off the train to make a report. Carina and the others who had witnessed the incident would be questioned and shown posters, but railroad officials took Quillan into a small office with walls lined with charts and maps.

  He waited there with the Wells Fargo agent until three other men joined them. One of these men, unremarkable but for the width between his eyes, motioned him to sit. There were only two chairs, so the other men remained standing. A certain unease settled on Quillan as he glanced about.

  The wide-eyed man said, “I’m Detective Bittering. I understand you have some acquaintance with the outlaws who held up the Union Pacific?”

  Quillan nodded. “I recognized one of the men.”

  The detective spoke slowly and deliberately. “How could you recognize him if he was masked?”

  Quillan sensed an antagonism he hadn’t expected. Hadn’t he just acted to save their interests at the risk of his own life? “I knew him.”

  “When?”

  “Fourteen or fifteen years ago.” Quillan’s throat felt tight.

  The man jotted that down on a sheet of paper. “That’s a long time. Have you seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you knew him with only his eyes showing.”

  “Eyes, forehead, voice.”

  “You must have known him very well.”

  Quillan shifted in his chair. “Several months.”

  The detective stood and walked across the room. “You knew him for several months; you haven’t seen him in fifteen years; yet you knew who it was.”

  Quillan stiffened. Was he on trial?

  Bittering glanced over his shoulder. “Forgive me, Mr. Shepard, if I seem skeptical. Comes with the territory.”

  Quillan nodded slightly.

  “At what point did you know the leader of this gang was your friend?”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “Must have made quite an impression.” Bittering tapped his pencil on the edge of the oak desk. “You knew him only a few months.”

  “I have a keen memory.”

  “Have you?” Bittering walked to the wall and studied a schedule chart.

  There was a knock at the door, and Bittering motioned one of the other two men to open it.

  Pierce stood outside. “Detective Bittering, I’m Roderick Pierce, Rocky Mountain News, Denver. I’d like to be present as you speak with Mr. Shepard here. I’m covering the story.”

  Quillan tensed, certain Bittering saw his unease.

  “Don’t mind if you listen,” Bittering said. “But don’t interrupt or ask questions of your own.” He fixed the man with his wide stare. Quillan suspected he did not ordinarily let pressmen in on his investigations. Did he do it now to intimidate? Mr. Pierce gave Quillan a smug smile. Quillan had been less than forthcoming on the train, and even less polite. Now there was no way to keep the man from knowing whatever the detective pried loose. He felt sweat on the back of his neck.

  Bittering turned back to Quillan. “Mr. Shepard, h
ow did you know this . . . What did you say your friend’s name was?”

  Quillan’s jaw tensed. The detective was baiting him. “I didn’t say.” He didn’t argue the term friend again. He wouldn’t dignify the tactic. But he added, “His name is Shane Dennison. I knew him when I was a boy in Laramie.”

  “A boy of eight, nine?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Almost a man.”

  “Almost.” Quillan’s hands tightened on the edge of his chair.

  “Was this Shane Dennison your companion?”

  Quillan thought back to those days when Dennison had taken a liking to Quillan, taken him under his wing and championed him to the other difficult boys. He nodded. “For several months.”

  “Why did you part company?”

  “I left town.”

  “Your family moved?”

  Quillan pictured himself walking out of Laramie without even a horse. He’d hitched a ride on one wagon or another until the dust of Laramie was covered by so many other layers it was no longer recognizable. “No. I did.”

  “Mind telling me why?”

  Yes, he minded. But he knew from that first clash with the law that it mattered little what he minded or didn’t. “Personal reasons.”

  “Unhappy at home?”

  “Sure.”

  Bittering gave him a quick stare. “And you never saw Dennison since.”

  “That’s what I said.” Quillan glanced at the agent. Why didn’t he speak up, tell the detective how it had been? Without Quillan’s interference both the Express box and the man’s life would have been lost.

  Bittering laughed lightly. “Yet your keen memory recognized him at once.”

  “That’s right.” They had covered this already. The detective was crossing back, trying to confuse him.

  “Are you wondering why a detective is here in a small whistle-stop like Granger to take your report?”

  Quillan hadn’t, but now he did.

  “I’ll tell you. This is the third time in four weeks the train’s been hit in almost that same spot. We believe this gang could have an inside man, someone aboard who signals when there’s a ripe payload on the Express, relays any delays, that sort of thing.”

  Quillan took that in without showing any emotion. Didn’t they realize a man like Dennison could stake out a track and learn its patterns as easily as he studied the flow of a bank? Then another thought occurred. They thought he was the inside man. “Then why would I rouse the others to fight off the outlaws?” His frank assessment startled the detective, but he recovered quickly.

  “Jealousy? Struggle for command? Any number of reasons. I have many accounts from fellow passengers of your aloofness, unwillingness to mingle.” He raised his brows at Pierce, who nodded heartily.

  “I don’t mingle by nature.” Quillan’s voice sounded tight to his own ears.

  “Don’t you. Well. You seem to have mingled with Shane Dennison. You knew him, and from what I surmise, he knew you, too. Seemed surprised you’d stand against him.” This time he glanced at the agent.

  “He was surprised I was there at all. It’s been so many years.”

  The detective turned. “That’s right. Fifteen years, yet you knew Dennison by his eyes alone.”

  Quillan didn’t repeat the other details that had clued him in. He looked at a short stack of books atop the oak file cabinet. “Will you hand me a book?”

  Again raising his brows, which gave his wide forehead a singularly unpleasant appearance, Bittering reached for the top book and handed it over. It was a survey written longhand by a man named Eustace Washington. Quillan opened randomly and silently read the first two paragraphs of the page. He turned the book around and held it out to Bittering. Pierce leaned closer, pencil poised. Quillan recited word for word what he had just read.

  Bittering followed the page, then looked up.

  Quillan met his eyes. “I recall things well.”

  Bittering stood a long moment. He’d felt certain he had it all figured out. Now Quillan saw disappointment take shape and soften the hard line of his mouth, the wide gaze of his eyes. Quillan stood up. “I’m not your man. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Mr. Shepard!” Pierce fairly leaped from his corner. “May we try another example, for the sake of authentication?”

  Quillan looked at him. “Authentication?”

  Pierce whisked a paper from the desk. It held a diagram of the spurs and lines running to and around Ogden, the next major hub. Quillan studied the diagram. “So what?”

  Pierce tore a paper from his pad. “Can you reproduce it?” He held out the pencil.

  Quillan stared from it to him, then took the pencil and scribbled what he recalled from the diagram. Pierce laid the two papers on the desk. Except for slight differences in length and direction, his drawing was very near the other. The other men stepped close to see.

  Bittering said, “Will you give us a description of your . . . of Dennison?”

  “Don’t you have him on a poster? His career has spanned fifteen years.” Quillan met Bittering’s eyes. Let him realize the nature of that first relationship. Quillan no longer cared.

  “He’s never been pictured without the mask.”

  Quillan hesitated, then took the pencil again from Pierce. He was not an artist. Recalling words or a diagram was one thing. He thought of Wolf ’s cave. Unlike his father, he’d never spent much energy on pictures. But he stared at the paper and recalled Shane Dennison’s face. It wasn’t artistic ability that mattered, but attention to detail, the shape and placement of the mouth, the roman nose, the way the chin caved in toward the neck. He turned over the page and drew Shane Dennison as he remembered him. “He’s no doubt filled out some. Has a mole here at the edge of his lip.” Quillan swallowed, pushed the paper across to Detective Bittering. “I hope you find him.”

  Bittering held out his hand, but Quillan turned and left the room. Once again, every man had assumed the worst of him. Even the agent whose life he’d saved.

  Carina watched them carry Miss Preston from the train on a litter not unlike the one Quillan had made for her ride up the mountain. Priscilla Preston would be kept in town to heal from her injuries. The doctor strode purposefully beside his patient. He must be staying, too, as the town could hardly support a physician of its own. Miss Preston’s aunt walked alongside the litter like a lost soul, but Carina was not sorry to see them go. Shaking her head, she recalled the younger woman’s foolishness. If the bullet had been six inches lower, she would never have opened her eyes again.

  She looked again down the hall toward the room where Quillan was being questioned. How long could it take to get his statement? Then she saw him coming toward her, his stride long and forced. Angry? No, it wasn’t anger so much as defiance. Why was he defiant, defensive, on guard? He took her arm without a word and led her back aboard their coach and to their seats.

  She turned. “Are you finished? They took your statement?”

  With a half laugh, he smirked. “Sure.”

  She caught his hand. “What is it, Quillan? What happened?”

  “They made assumptions. I proved them wrong.”

  She pressed his hand to her cheek. “What assumptions? Tell me!”

  He turned and jerked the curtains closed around them. She was not surprised to then be jerked tightly to his chest. His mouth on hers told her he’d been hurt and was seeking solace, as always, in her physical love. She kissed him deeply. “Don’t let it bother you, caro mio.” She stroked his face. “What do they know?”

  “Am I so wretched, Carina? Do I . . . do I look evil?”

  “No, my darling.”

  His fingers dug into her back. “I must.”

  “No. Not evil, just different. People distrust what they can’t understand.” He grabbed her arms and held her out. “Do you trust me?”

  The violence of his question frightened her. “Yes. Of course I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”


  He dropped his forehead to the crown of her head. “How can you?”

  “I just do.” She smoothed his thick, wonderful hair and felt the violence leave him. “Don’t let them hurt you.”

  “I don’t know what God’s doing. Cain said He had plans for me, but I don’t see it. I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t try to. Just wait.”

  He sagged. “For what?”

  “God will show you. Gesù Cristo. He will.”

  Quillan’s breath came easily now as he enveloped her gently into his arms. “Don’t ever leave me, Carina.”

  “No. I promise.”

  He sighed. “They thought I was one of the gang.”

  “What? How could they? You stopped the outlaws—you didn’t help them!”

  He rubbed his hand over his jaw. She heard the sandpaper scrape of his whiskers. He did look rather wild.

  She touched his face with her fingertips. “You could shave.”

  “I don’t want people to judge me by how I look.”

  She sighed. “But they do.”

  His jaw grew tight. “Then let them. I am what I am.”

  She smiled. “Oh, Quillan.”

  He tipped her chin up and stared into her eyes. “You don’t want a pirate husband?”

  “I want you any way at all.” She heard other passengers coming aboard. The whistle blew, and more voices sounded outside their curtain.

  He looked at the flimsy barrier and whispered, “You know what I wish? That you and I could have this train all to ourselves, with no one else.”

  She pressed her hands to his chest. “Others would love and trust you if you gave them the chance.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t seem to know how.”

  She stepped back from him as the train made a small lurch forward. “You’ll learn.”

  “You’re supremely confident of that.”

  She nodded, drawing the curtain back behind their seats to reveal the rest of the car. Then they sat down across from each other, eyes held unswerving. His mouth pulled slightly up at one edge. “God’s got his work, taming me.”